Dream's End
by Bloodhawk 248
Summary: He walks a path he calls his own, but who can tell what the winding skeins of fate have in store?
1. Dream's End

A/N: Whoo boy, this is going to be a long one.

Hi guys! I'm deluding myself into thinking I have a fanbase, and one that's happy to see me since I haven't updated PS for like a year. Okay, I have no excuses except that I found out how lame a plot it had. Most of the comments told me how much I messed up, so the truth demoralized me. I kind of shoveled it under my proverbial bed and forgot about it while I worked on this. I honestly don't know what is going to happen to it, but I do know that I want to do some kind of HP/FSN cross because mine was one of the first that showed up on , I believe. I hope I can pull it off, even though past experience says otherwise.

Which brings me to this. This was actually started in January this year, right after Fury of the Damned, but it went through writer's hell after I rediscovered the Xbox and all its lovely games. It's been a long time since then, almost nine months. My friend told me the amount of symbolism was absurd, both in the story itself and the amount of time and effort it took to write. I agree with him, though he screwed around quite a bit by inserting random bits of drivel into my google doc. Something to do with Tigger.

So, I have to apologize for the quality of this fic. The plot literally fell together in ways I never expected, so there may be some mood whiplash. There are gratuitous amounts of character cameos who have absolutely no reason to be there, though I hope their presence is at least entertaining. It may be somewhat piecemeal because of the long period of time it was written over, but I'm rather proud of individual bits within it. I tried some new things to tune up my rusty writing style. Feedback is welcomed, constructive feedback even more so. I'd love to improve.

One last thing: halfway through the story I originally wrote a flashback, but it extended so long it took up a third of the story and was rather jarring, according to my beta. He advised I take it out, so I did. It'll be included as a second chapter if you want to read it; it fits in well with the theme but is probably best read separately. It's quite clear where it should have been, and I'll detail it even more in the second chapter. You might even switch chapters at that spot and come back when you're done; up to you.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_The blow caught him in the stomach, knocking him backwards. __He nearly retched up his breakfast, but turned the backwards fall into a roll. His sword dropped from his hand, clattering against the floor before it vanished._

_Red eyes narrowed as the fiend moved to pursue, but then widened again in shock as steel blades tore through unholy flesh. A snarl of pain vibrated the ground. _

_A hand closed around his shoulder and with no time to trace a weapon he lashed out blindly, without turning his head. A familiar voice yelped in response. _

"_Whoah! I'm on your side!"_

_Another hand slid underneath his arm and with a grunt pulled him to his feet. He shook free of the limbs and turned around, fixing the pink-haired woman with a flat stare. _

"_You - why are you here?" _

_A roar distracted him, and he spun, hands opening in preparation for tracing, but the anger in that roar wasn't directed at him. The fiend flailed around wildly, lurching about in a desperate attempt to dislodge the small girl now crouched on its back. Clinging on tenaciously, she drove the blades projecting from her fists into fiendish flesh again and again_

"_You brought her too, huh." The surprise had dropped from his voice; he shouldn't have been shocked in the first place. _

"_She wouldn't stay out." Boots thumped against the stone as his companion stepped up beside him. Blue eyes twinkled. "She was getting a little stir-crazy, you know. It wasn't nice of you to leave without telling her."_

"_This isn't her fight. Or yours." He glared at her. He'd been told his stare was intimidating, and for the first time he willed it to be so. Cerulean eyes met gold and locked, not budging. No luck, then._

_He broke the stare, cursing the smirk that appeared at the corner of her mouth._

"_And they called _me_ naive."_

_Nearby, part of the stonework that made up the tower exploded outwards, showering the area with rocks. One particularly large specimen struck the mammoth fiend in the head, and it fell to its knees. The girl on its back seized the opportunity and flipped off. As she fell past its head, one hand lashed out, light catching the metal blades, and bisected the monster's head neatly lengthwise. _

_The body teetered, then slammed face-down into the stonework with a crunch. Its killer landed lightly on her feet, claws extended and with a feral look on her young face._

_Another fiend crawled out of the hole in the stonework, a massive creature both humanoid and insectoid at once. Massive pincers snapped menacingly at the ends of arms as thick as tree trunks. Burning red eyes glared from behind a mask of thick chitin._

_This one would be more of a challenge. Shirou could feel it._

_A blur caught his eye._

"_Laura, no-"_

_Too late. The girl flung herself forward, light flashing from her claws. With a speed belying its size, the fiend smashed one crab-like pincer into her as she closed for the killing blow. The force of the strike knocked her backwards, sending the small girl flying off the tower._

_Prana surged through his hand and an axe appeared, golden and green, tassels dangling from its haft. Two Reinforcement-powered steps brought him right into range of the fiend, and the axe blade smashed against chitin. Instead of connecting and biting into the carapace, the weapon grated against it, sparks flying from the contact. _

_There was no time to grieve - the prehensile tail that until now had lain dormant on the stone shot forwards and Shirou had to slip aside, disengaging from his enemy. The insect fiend's pincer was there to meet him, and only a quick parry with the axe saved him from bisection. Metal clanged loudly against chitin, and the fiend chittered, as if irritated. The pincer snapped again and again, thwarted from slicing him into pieces only by the enchanted steel of the axe head._

_Then pink flashed, and the sound of metal ringing against carapace again filled the air. This time, it wasn't him. _

_Utena leaped easily into the air, avoiding a preternaturally quick swipe of the pointed tail. She swung twice before she landed, the steel of her sword glancing off the carapace without penetrating. She shifted to dodge a hammer-blow from the remaining pincer before sliding inside the creature's guard and slashing repeatedly at the hard shell. The pressure on Shirou's axe lessened._

_With a groan of effort, he pushed, digging his feet firmly into the ground and grinding the shining blade against the enclosing pincer. The fiend shrieked, high-pitched and unintelligible. He gritted his teeth and dug the blade in more, feeling chitin give against the edge. It wasn't enough. He needed more room, space to swing, but the pincer wasn't giving him that room. If he let up, he'd be chopped in half._

_A white blur leaped onto the creature's back, and pink hair fluttered in the air as Utena slammed the tip of her saber down. Shirou caught a glimpse of light flashing off the sword, and then the fiend staggered back like a drunkard. The sudden movement threw the pink-haired girl off its back, and it rounded on her with one claw raised. _

_Shirou grunted again and flexed his arms. The pincer fell back, releasing him, as the fiend swung at Utena, who flipped out of the way in an impossibly-casual manner._

_The axe wasn't going to work here; it lacked the punch to break the carapace and its special ability as a Noble Phantasm probably wouldn't work on a fiend, who didn't know fear. Something more direct was required. He let go of the axe, which disappeared in a brief flash of light. Once again, the tracing process began. Prana poured itself out of his body and into his hand, waiting to be molded into anything he could visualize._

_The first step: judging the concept of creation. The weapon he wanted was a beautiful weapon, but only in its complete lethality. It wasn't ornamented and the only concession to art was its unique shape. It was made only for war, and that was important in its creation._

_The second step: hypothesizing the basic structure. He'd only seen the weapon once, but it was enough. The shape of the blade, though interesting, wasn't particularly complicated. It was made to be a simple weapon, and not even its power as a Noble Phantasm would change that._

_The third step: duplicating the composition material. Like most of the legendary blades of the day, the weapon was pattern-welded in the Damascus style. As the weapon of a prophet's greatest warrior, only the very best steel forged in the hottest furnace would suffice._

_The fourth step: imitating the skill of its making. The greatest smiths of the then-nascent Muslim empire had labored night and day over this particular weapon. The amount of effort and care placed into the blade was enormous; with the potential for greatness created it was no wonder the blade would become legendary._

_The fifth step: sympathizing with the experience of its growth. With every blow the sword struck, it cleaved through armor, flesh, and bone. Nothing stopped it, save at one point the attentions of an archangel. _

_The sixth step: reproducing the accumulated years. More than a hundred decades have passed since its forging. It has been wielded in many conflicts, often by those who didn't know what exactly they were holding. Though surpassed in power by Excalibur or Durandal, it had seen far more use than those worthy weapons. It was a truly venerable blade._

_The seventh step: excelling every manufacturing process. To possess its true power, the weapon had to be perfect, an exact copy of its illustrious parent. _

"_Trace, on."_

_The __perfect blade appeared in his hand, but then again, he never doubted that it wouldn't. He was average at a lot of things, but Projection was a physical representation of who he was; if he was to excel at anything it would be this. _

_Shirou charged. _

_His first strike lopped off the fiend's right pincer. He spun, dodging a clumsy swipe from the remaining limb, and swept out the scimitar in an arc that caught the afternoon light. Chitin split under the blow and the fiend chittered in agony. Once again the spiked tail shot outwards, aiming to gut him through the chest. He turned the scimitar so that its edge met the attacking limb, bisecting it lengthwise as lethal steel parted unnatural armor with ease. _

_This time Shirou didn't retreat; he stepped forward as the tail fell uselessly to the stone underfoot. He slammed a foot into the brute's midsection, and__ the force of the blow doubled his opponent over. For a second the fiend bowed its head, like a penitent kneeling before the altar...or a condemned man waiting to be beheaded._

_He struck downwards with all his might. The blade once wielded by Ali ibn Abi Talib scythed downwards and took the fiend's head from its shoulders in one stroke. There was no blood; none of the fiends bled. Whether it was because of their half-demonic nature or because the magus creating them had somehow bypassed the necessary organic systems, he didn't know._

_The stone beneath his feet shook again, as Utena vaulted to his side in a cartwheel that would have made most men drool. _

"_What do we do now?" She sheathed her saber. _

"I _am going to go find the magus." Shirou matched her unamused stare with his own. "Look, I'm not being chauvinist__! Your saber - which I don't know how you got, by the way - isn't effective against them." The girl-prince opened her mouth, but Shirou cut her off. "You're not equipped to deal with any more fiends."_

_Utena folded her arms, face setting, and Shirou's stomach sank. "Why don't you just give me one of yours?"_

_He stalled. There had to be a way to keep her out of the fiends' way; she was good but not in their league. The__ estimates provided by the Church had been extremely vague; there could be anywhere from fifteen to one hundred fiends. Hell, it was possible Genesis was manufacturing them even as they spoke. Utena was good, but she was all raw potential; speed, strength, and grace without the skill to make her a truly formidable combatant. A fiend would kill her, and it went without saying he wasn't going to allow that._

_And yet she was as stubborn as he was. Whatever had happened to her at the school she never talked about had hardened her, but she was still incredibly courageous and a woman of action. With that personality, she probably wasn't terribly inclined to see him fight a bunch of monsters without chipping in. If he didn't give her a weapon to keep her alive, she'd charge straight into the fiends and get herself shredded._

_He squared his shoulders and prepared to argue, but the stones beneath his feet shook, and a second later thunder rumbled as the entire tower trembled. Utena nearly fell, but caught herself and planted her feet. _

"_Things are heating up," she observed, "what do you think it means?"_

"_More of them are probably escaping." Shirou felt his stomach sink. He'd been hoping to stop Genesis before the magus-turned-scientist could release his creations, but he'd underestimated the strength of each individual fiend. He was going to have to pull deeper from his armory than he had intended._

_The advent of the fiends also made it clear that he couldn't leave Utena without protection. He'd be too busy trying to keep himself alive to protect her. _

_Shirou sighed. Mana blasted through his left hand, and within moments another scimitar appeared, identical to the first. _

_Utena whistled appreciatively as he handed it to her, sliding the saber back into its sheath. "That's a nice sword." She took an experimental test swing, and Shirou had to duck under the blow. "Whoops!" _

_The redhead sighed. "Its name is Zulfqiar. Putting it simply, it's a force multiplier. The harder you swing it, the more damage it does. Watch yourself, it might throw you off if you strike too hard." _

_Utena nodded, but he wasn't quite sure she understood. The pink-haired girl was a natural fighter, blessed with surprising fitness and natural coordination. She didn't measure her attacks or weigh her balance; she just moved instinctively. He would have to hope that instinct would keep her alive. _

"_Don't die, Tenjou-san."_

_He expected a flippant remark, but instead the girl nodded, face setting. _

"_Don't worry about it. I've still got someone to find."_

_What could Shirou say to that? He smiled slightly. _

"_Okay then. Let's go."_

_And together, the two heroes leaped down into the hole._

* * *

_He was falling. _

_Pink hair flared out as Utena fell past him, slashing at something he couldn't see. Laura followed soon after, long blades extending from her knuckles as she twisted and cut. Rin was next, her skirt flapping quite indecently around her as gemstones flew from her fingers, sparkling briefly before detonating into showers of vivid color. She gave him a quick smile before plummeting into the darkness below him._

_More and more people began to fall past him. He recognized Tohno Shiki as the bespectacled man flipped below him, swinging his knife wildly, but not the red-eyed, pale-haired woman who followed him, or the matching red-headed twins who came after her. He did see Ciel as the enforcer fired her massive gun into the darkness, but a second man with glasses and a wooden stick that shot flame failed to ring any bells._

_Then suddenly Gilgamesh was next to him, somehow managing to look perfectly composed despite not having a place to stand. The King of Heroes stared at him for two long seconds, then suddenly smiled and gave him a thumbs up. One gold-plated hand reached out and ruffled his hair, which didn't actually bother him too much until he remembered that first of all, the ruler of Uruk would never have done such a thing, and second, he was dead._

_Then Shirou woke up._

* * *

The first thing he saw was a blue sky, which didn't bother him much until he remembered he had been in the middle of a tower, and so he shouldn't be seeing the sky right now. There definitely hadn't been rock under his back, so something had happened.

He sat up, feeling something rustle underneath him, and looked around. A sea of green met his eyes, waving gently in the occasional breeze. In the distance he could see mountains, the granite-grey of their peaks rising majestically above the plains. Trees rose up in a forest to his left, and off to his right was an indistinct blob of blue that might be a lake, and near that were some grey blocks that he couldn't quite make out, even when he Reinforced his eyes.

"...huh."

This definitely wasn't the tower anymore. He was somewhere else, which both did and didn't surprise him. There had been nothing to suggest that Genesis' tower was situated on a time-space nexus, but stranger things had happened to Shirou before. Like somehow getting involved in a mysterious war with a legendary hero-king who should have been male but wasn't.

He stood up, his armor rustling and tapping against itself. It was time to face the facts. If he really had been catapulted back in time or sent to an alternate reality, there wasn't much he could do about it. Aozaki Aoko had refused to reveal any of the properties of the Fifth Magic, which had something to do with temporal manipulation, but had stated definitely that she had no idea how to reverse a temporal phenomenon on that kind of scale. In her own words, "Sure, I could do time travel - if I'm rested up, at full capacity, and incredibly lucky - but I wouldn't have any idea how to get back, and even if I did the probability of returning to _my _present is ridiculously low. Time isn't linear and logical like that, and even the most precise calculations taking into account every minor detail -which is impossible, by the way - will fail. It's not something you want to mess around with, Emiya-kun."

She had also noted that alternate realities, while easier to reach than the distant past, were incredibly ubiquitous, and that it wasn't possible to reach any single one from any other. There was an intricate system of channels that led from each reality to the next, which was the only real way to travel between them. To make matters worse, there was no real way to tell which reality was the one you were looking for until you reached it. For that reason Aoko stuck to one particular stretch of the 'multi-verse', as she liked to call it, so that she wouldn't get lost.

Shirou sighed. He wasn't very materialistic and he could always get a job working with his hands, depending on the technology level of the world or time he'd been warped into. It wasn't leaving the world itself that bothered him, but the people he was leaving behind.

Rin, Sakura, Ilya and Taiga were the first to come up, of course. Rin's amused smirk and occasional temper tantrums were a staple of everyday life, and Sakura's gentle smile and soft voice were more familiar to him than his own. Ilya and Taiga's loud, tempestuous antics were irritating and comforting at the same time, a constant in a life that didn't have too many.

Of course, it might be too early for melancholy. He still didn't know what had happened, and so there might still be a way back. At any rate, nothing was being accomplished here.

As a starting point, the lake was probably a good destination; his throat was dry. After that, he'd head towards those squat grey blocks and see if he could make his way from there.

It was a long walk to the lake.

Shirou was alert for danger, as always, but so far there was nothing to suggest it. The only movement came from the occasional gopher burrowing into the dirt, or a rabbit dashing across his path. Sometimes he saw the brown blur of a hawk gliding through the otherwise unbroken blue of the sky.

Despite these bursts of life the land around him carried a sense of peace and a feeling of serenity that not even the shrines and temples back in Fuyuki could match. The air was heavier here, carrying a sense of age. Gradually, Shirou's open hands relaxed as he walked, hanging empty at his sides. The atmosphere of the place carried a promise of endurance, that it would always remain this way no matter how long it existed. Permanence, solidity...it appealed to him.

Once, the dream was all that had mattered to him. He'd sacrificed everything for it, even chosen it over the girl he loved. Though it had been the only choice available to him, he wouldn't have changed it even if the Grail had not been debased into a sick shadow of itself. He'd already asked her to be untrue to herself; how could he compound the insult by doing so himself? Ideals had been a part of them both, and they'd fallen in love because of who they were and what they held dear. To abandon that, even a little, was like abandoning her.

He'd never considered that maybe he could have the life others took for granted; maybe opening his own shop, settling down, maybe getting married -

Where had that thought come from?

Shirou shook his head resolutely and continued his march. He'd come too far on his chosen path to turn now. His ideals were everything to him, and as for living the simple life there was only one woman he would have married.

The air of this place was affecting him strangely. He briefly considered the possibility of a subversive mental attack, then disregarded it. Caution was healthy, but paranoia was not, and the effect of this kind of attack was questionable. The memories and feelings dredged up by such a tactic were ineffective at best.

Which begged the question again: where was he?

He realized with a start that his walk had carried him far closer to the grey blocks than he'd expected. At this range, they were no longer indistinct rectangles but now proud fortresses, castles made of grey stone and proud, up-thrusting battlements. The castles all had moats, long meandering ditches dug deep in the dirt and winding around the constructs of stone and mortar like serpents.

The time travel theory was starting to seem more likely; there were certainly castles that still existed in Europe but they were dull, feeble relics of a time long past. These fortresses looked strong and vigorous, with a sense of pride the ruins he'd seen had lacked. Out of a whim, he picked the westernmost and continued towards it. As he closed on the structure, he noticed suddenly that he was not alone.

Two men stood on either side of the gate, one a massive man with broad shoulders and a huge chest and the other whip-thin with a wiry body. The big man wore a suit of metal plate that completely encased his body and a visored helmet that concealed his face; his smaller compatriot eschewed plate for a tabard woven of emerald cloth, under which Shirou could see the glimpse of mail rings, and the helmet for a blocky great helm that eschewed the visor for a pair of eye slits.

Both these men were armed; the taller man had a sword sheathed at his waist, while the shorter one bore a long axe in both hands. They moved slightly as he approached; wary but not yet hostile.

"Who goes there?" The first knight asked mildly, and Shirou's trained eye caught the hand that dropped unobtrusively to hang near his sword. The man spoke English, which Shirou was surprised to discover he understood perfectly. Odd, he never finished his English lessons and wasn't fluent at all.

"I'm Emiya Shirou," he began, and stopped, shocked. He only knew a few words of English, of which those that introduced himself were a majority, but they came out with no accent, as smooth as if he had been born speaking the dialect.

"Emi...ya?" the knight rolled the unfamiliar sounds around his tongue. "A strange name you carry, as well as a strange predicament you bring." The words came out muffled by his visor. "You are not one of our fellowship. You should not be here."

"I had realized that," Shirou said dryly, "I don't particularly want to be here either."

The words dropped away into an awkward silence. Both knights stared at him, and even though their faces were concealed by their full-face helmets Shirou could feel the intensity of their gazes. He returned the hidden stares calmly.

Then, the first knight took off his helmet, revealing a strong, clean-shaven face, with high cheekbones and a regal cast to his features. Chagrin was clear in his expression, and he smiled ruefully at Shirou, dropping his free hand from the sword hilt.

"My apologies, good sir. I spoke out of turn. Though your appearance is disconcerting, we should not have reacted the way we did." He glanced meaningfully at his companion, who planted the haft of his axe on the ground. "You are of course welcome to our hospitality here, goodman Syrowe."

Shirou considered it, though the situation didn't really require a depth of thought. He had no idea where he was and how he got there. The knight had said he shouldn't be here, though whether that meant as an extra-dimensional exile or as a general area-restricted type of thing he wasn't sure. However, he had been offered hospitality, so that probably ruled out the latter. At any rate, there was no reason not to take the knights up on their offer.

And that was another thing. Knights, actual honest-to-god knights! Granted, the Church still maintained knightly orders but most of those equipped themselves more along modern-day lines. Riesbyfe Stridberg, for example, dressed more like a member of a bizarrely-somber marching band than a Teutonic Knight, and the holy shield Gamaliel certainly wasn't anything like the traditional swords and axes wielded by her spiritual ancestors. The time travel theory looked more and more plausible now.

At any rate, he could think this over in the castle where, presumably, he would have something to eat. He nodded gently.

"I'd be delighted to, sir - ?" He realized he hadn't gotten the knight's name, and paused inquisitively.

"Oh! Forgive me, goodman Syrowe." Shirou winced again at the butchering of his name. "My name is Sir Calogrenant," the knight bowed again, this time more deeply, and gestured at his comrade, "and this is Sir Caradoc." The knight in green said nothing but inclined his head.

"Pleased to meet you, sirs." Shirou smiled slightly as the words flowed naturally from his lips. Whatever this place was, it seemed to lessen the communication barrier; his exact intent was expressed as clearly as it could be through the words of a language he didn't know well at all. At the very least, it saved him the time of trying to make himself understood while men in metal plate waved sharp implements at him threateningly.

"Follow me, goodman Syrowe." A groan issued between the two knights, as the massive portcullis began to rise. "The king and his counselors will want to see you, and perhaps we can work out a solution to this dilemma."

Shirou shrugged.

The doors slammed open, and Sir Calogrenant strode purposely into the hall. Shirou followed at a more sedate pace, keeping a keen eye on his surroundings. It was a big room, walled off with stone and almost cavernous in its scope. The ceiling stretched high above him, farther than he would have expected for a castle. Maybe his estimates were incorrect...but no, he was rarely wrong when it came to matters of perception.

This entire area...world, possibly...was off. Too many discrepancies that couldn't be easily explained. And then there was the matter of the knights, and also his sudden proficiency in English...no, no reason to get into that. It was going to hurt his head.

One thing that made sense, though: the tables were long and sturdy, with matching wooden benches instead of chairs. Whether or not that was historically accurate, it was certainly more convenient and efficient than making individual chairs. This route probably saved a lot of reconstruction from drunken bar brawls. A great many men sat astride the benches, having some kind of afternoon repast. They ate heartily, clinked mugs together, and even engaged in the occasional arm-wrestling match, with no particular concern for any food nearby.

Something with an uncanny resemblance to mud landed noisily on the ground next to Shirou's foot and he stepped away in reflex, casting the stuff a wary glance. Sir Calogrenant laughed heartily at his discomfort.

"My apologies, goodman Syrowe. My fellows are...boisterous," here Shirou watched as a slim, shy-looking youth accepted a challenge from a heavily-bearded man twice his size and then promptly slammed the bigger man's hand down to the table, "but they are all men of great valor and character; they would not be allowed into our brotherhood otherwise."

Shirou smiled slightly. "I don't doubt it."

The knight gestured, and continued down the long hall, returning the greetings of the various men at the table. Shirou followed him. Many of them gave him curious looks, and he responded with polite nods and smiles, giving nothing away.

The end of the hall sported another table, but unlike its compatriots this one was a flat circle instead of a long rectangle. Individual chairs were set around the massive table. All were empty, save one in which a bored-looking man slouched. He held a naked blade in one hand, running it along a whetstone with patient scraping motions.

Sir Calogrenant approached the table, and the man looked up. Watchful hazel eyes took in the knight, then focused behind him on Shirou.

"Calogrenant," he greeted the other knight, giving his sword one last scrape before laying it down on the table before him. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Who is your friend?"

Calogrenant's face settled into a calm mask, but Shirou noticed his cheek twitch. "Sir Kay. We have an unexpected guest. I wanted to inform the king about him."

The man named Sir Kay narrowed his eyes. "The king is currently indisposed; you may inform me instead." The entire time his gaze did not leave Shirou's face.

Sir Calogrenant shrugged. "There is very little to tell, truly. He is not of the brotherhood, yet he is present. It should not be possible."

"Then why not consult the wizard?" Sir Kay waved a hand carelessly. "Surely matters of magic should be presented to those who enjoy those things, and not worthy of the attention of the king?" He picked up an apple resting on his plate and bit into it, discarding it after only a few bites.

This time Shirou was sure he saw Calogrenant's jaw clench. "The Lord Wizard comes and goes as he will and the Lady Priestess is always at the king's side. I had hoped to find them here and not trouble you with such an insignificant matter." His words came with icy politeness.

Kay smirked. "If this is so insignificant a matter, it can wait until the king returns from her sojourn. I would of course not presume to take on airs by assuming kingly responsibilities while our rightful monarch is absent." One hand flapped dismissively. "As of course this is not of pressing urgency I believe we can wait for Her Majesty's judgment instead of bothering her with something so trivial."

"And how long is the king to be occupied?" Calogrenant inquired, his face giving away nothing but his voice clearly strained. Kay shrugged, a smirk tilting his mouth upwards.

"I've no idea." He turned his attention back to the apple on his plate, picking it up again and crunching into it noisily. Shirou glanced at his guide, then back at the eating knight, but Kay showed no sign of engaging in any further conversation. Calogrenant seemed to pick up on this as well; the knight bowed stiffly, his still-helmeted head dipping slightly less than was appropriate, and strode away. With one last glance at the busily-occupied Kay, Shirou followed.

"I must offer my sincere apologies, goodman Syrowe." Calogrenant explained five minutes later, when both of them were seated at one of the long tables. "Sir Kay is the king's seneschal and rules in her stead. His decisions are as the king's." The knight had taken off his helmet, revealing a proud, high-boned face topped with short brown hair. "Hopefully she will not be absent for too long; your predicament should be attended to as soon as possible."

Shirou nodded, crossing his arms idly. The hall was winding down; most of the inhabitants had left the hall, and servants were now busy cleaning up the detritus left by their presence. Kay still lounged at the higher table, making acidic comments at any unfortunate servant whose duties took them past him. The faker frowned. It was a point of his to avoid judging anyone on first impressions, yet Sir Kay seemed to be going out of his way to make a bad one.

Calogrenant noticed the direction of his gaze and sighed. "I am sorry for your treatment. Sir Kay can be...difficult at times. He is...prickly and temperamental, but he is the foster brother of our lord and they are very close. I do not know why he chooses to act as he does, but he must have a good reason for it."

One look at the knight's face told Shirou he wasn't convinced of his own words, but he kept his peace. There was something else he wanted to ask.

"Speaking of your lord," he began, "is -"

He tried to find a way to phrase his question politely. Calogrenant looked blankly at him.

"Does-" after a few minutes of verbal flailing, he just stopped. A blunt question seemed the only way to get it across. He took a deep breath.

"Is your lord a woman?"

Calogrenant's blank stare turned knowing. "Oh! Yes, our sovereign king and lord happens to be of the gentler persuasion." He puffed his chest out in pride.

That was not the reaction Shirou had been expecting. He blinked. Calogrenant noticed, and gave a wry smile.

"Yes, it must be strange to see a knight who is proud of serving under a woman." The bigger man looked contemplative for a moment. "To be honest, we did not know of her identity for quite some time; we all believed her to be a man."

Shirou raised an eyebrow, and in response Calogrenant colored. "Well, yes," the knight admitted, "there is that, but you must understand that extenuating circumstances were involved."

Shirou let it drop. Pursuing it would only make Calogrenant uncomfortable, and there was no need to antagonize his host. He would meet this lady king soon enough. What would she be like? It was a given that she would be strong and assertive, in order to maintain her hold over so many fractious warriors. It was quite probable that she would be a great fighter as well; men naturally held the advantage in that field but it was possible for a woman to excel.

He smirked to himself at the understatement. How many badass women did he know? Rin was a genius magus and quite the master of Chinese martial arts, Utena knew her way around a sword, and Laura was incredible speed, deadly skill, and metal claws wrapped up in a five-foot package. Ayako was no slouch with a bow, Aoko commanded magic that did nothing but explode, and that Ryougi woman was...very scary, to say the least. Add them to the legends of Boudicca, Joan of Arc, and Tomyris and this warrior queen was very much possible.

But she wasn't a queen, was she?

"Sir Calogrenant," Shirou began, and the knight straightened up, looking at him inquiringly, "why call your lord a king? If she's a woman, why not call her a queen?"

Calogrenant fidgeted uncomfortably. "We already have a queen." His tone brooked no disagreement.

Shirou frowned, irritated with himself. If he was going to ask pointless questions he should probably pick his subjects more carefully. "My apologies." The knight nodded his head stiffly, all traces of amity gone, and turned away. Shirou cursed silently; he'd antagonized the only friendly face he was likely to get, and he still didn't understand how.

Then something pounded upon the gates, firmly and forcefully. Immediately Sir Calogrenant leaped to his feet. For a moment Shirou thought they were under attack, but the joyful expression on the big knight's face soon proved otherwise.

"Open the gate!" Calogrenant thundered. Immediately, six of the knights still present rushed to the gates, pulling them open with all their strength. The doors opened quickly, to Shirou's amazement; they should have needed at least twelve men to open, judging by their size. His respect for these fighting men went up.

The tap of boots against stone drew his attention; Sir Kay moved quickly down from the head of the table, eagerness plain on his face. It transformed his sharp features from the sour countenance he had been wearing, and he looked almost boyish.

Sunlight streamed in through the open doors as every knight in the hall swarmed towards them. Shirou rose from the bench and followed behind them, curious to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals.

Two knights walked through the doors first, both clad in full plate armor and with visored helmets masking their faces. They wore swords at their belts and carried the distinctive heater shields in their left hands. Long cloaks of ermine and velvet trailed from their shoulder pauldrons, and they marched straight into the mass of knights, shouldering them aside gently and making room for the rest of their party.

The man who followed them was taller than both of them, and his own armor was not merely silver but enameled white. He went unhelmeted, and his face was deeply tanned. Unruly black hair spilled down the sides of his face and his eyes were the color of coal, dark and piercing with the kind of gaze that could freeze a man in his tracks. Despite that, the gentle smile on his lips dispelled any appearance of cruelty and distance.

Beside him walked a vision of beauty, a woman whose every step was one of dainty grace. Her bearing was noble and her posture straight, with tresses a bright crimson falling down past her shoulders. Her eyes were sea-green, green so mixed and intertwined with blue it was almost turquoise, and they blazed with passion and joy so brightly it was easy to see why the man beside her was smiling.

Beaming, Calogrenant rushed over to them and knelt, his big frame settling heavily onto the ground. Laughing, the white knight hauled him up by his shoulders and the two embraced, slapping each other's backs. When they were done, Calogrenant bowed deeply to the woman, who took his head in her hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheeks. The obvious affection evident in the interactions made Shirou smile.

And then the last three individuals walked through the gate.

With a clatter of iron, every single man in the room fell to his knees and bowed his head, Calogrenant doing so for the second time in as many minutes. Even the white knight knelt, and the woman curtseyed. Shirou blinked as the sea of grey and silver suddenly dropped to the ground.

"Please, get up. You need not kneel to me."

The voice was soft and husky, but it had a musical lilt to it that gave life to the words it spoke. It was not overtly feminine nor particularly distinctive. It could have belonged to anyone, and yet Shirou sat spellbound because he _knew that voice. _His attention shifted to the speaker.

She stood between the opened gates, resplendent in her gleaming silver armor and the blue of her dress glowing in the rays of the afternoon sun. Her hair was done up in the familiar style, bangs framing a face like porcelain. Those green eyes, as bright as he remembered them but this time filled with emotions she had never expressed back then. Her beauty had been that of a statue, cold and austere and lacking in warmth. Now, the mouth that had so often been set into a hard line was softened, curving into a half smile that spoke of joy and vigor. Her countenance was no longer hard and bleak.

And Shirou felt himself fall in love with her all over again.

He rose from the bench, mouth working nervelessly, and stepped towards her, heedless of the kneeling knights around him. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, eyes narrowing and a gauntleted hand going to the sword slung on her back. He saw no acknowledgement in those eyes and for one horrible moment his heart fell.

Then the light of recognition flared in the green orbs and her half-smile became a true one. Her hand dropped from the sword hilt and she ran towards him, boots clicking quickly against the stone. He sprang towards her, opening his arms, and they met in the middle of the hall. He wrapped his arms around her, breathed in the scent of her hair, and felt her hands go to his neck.

And for a long moment, their lips met.

A shocked silence fell over the assembled knights. The white knight was concealing a smile behind one gauntlet, while his companion stared at the unfolding tableau with wide eyes. Calogrenant's mouth gaped open like a fish. Shirou, of course, noticed none of this.

Eventually, they broke apart, breathing hard. She smiled up at him, green eyes alight with joyful surprise.

"S-Shirou..."

He felt an answering grin split his face. "Hi, Saber. Long time no see."

The following minutes were a blur, until Shirou found himself seated at the high table, with the clamor and bustle of the knights returning. Strangely enough, or perhaps not so strangely, Saber's arrival had preceded a general trend; more and more armored knights seemed to enter through the gates than before. Or perhaps this was because darkness was falling and those same worthy knights didn't want to spend the night outside. Shirou couldn't really bring himself to care.

"Shirou? Are you still with us?"

The teasing tone to her voice (something he had rarely heard before) pulled him out of his stupor and he looked up to see her smiling at him.

"Yeah, sorry." He grinned sheepishly. "You were saying?"

"There are some people I would like to introduce you to." She gestured to the man in white armor, who stepped forward. "This is my oldest friend, and one of my best knights." Something like thoughtfulness took hold of her green eyes. "Oh, but that in itself has likely revealed his name to you, has it not?"

That was new. The Saber he had known never had time for conversational frivolities and rhetorical questions. She had made herself into a tool with one purpose: to win the Holy Grail War and acquire her wish. Nor did she have many tones of voice; there was really only the cold, no-nonsense mode of conversation. Not that he missed any of that, if he was perfectly honest. There was a playful way to her words that was quite endearing.

"Probably," he shrugged, smiling, and stood up. "But since it's impolite to assume things, let's pretend I don't know."

Saber nodded. "Very well then. Emiya Shirou, this is Sir Lancelot du Lac, Knight of the Lake and master of Joyous Gard."

The white knight bowed deeply, a singularly graceful motion that betrayed an ease of motion not common even in seasoned fighters. "A pleasure to meet you, goodman Emiya."

"Uh, it's just Shirou, if you don't mind," Shirou replied, suddenly feeling awkward. "I think you're the one who deserves a title, Sir Lancelot."

Lancelot smiled. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I would argue the point," he cast an affectionate glance at Saber, "but my liege lord would not hear of it." He offered his hand, which Shirou shook, finding the legendary knight's grip to be strong, but not bone-crushingly so. Right then it suddenly occurred to him that he was shaking the hand of a legend. He probably should be more affected by this.

"Yeah," Shirou was surprised to feel himself smirk, "she doesn't like to hear a lot of things."

Saber's glare was full of mock anger. "You should watch your tongue, Shirou. Were I not so fond of you I would make you eat your disrespectful words."

Shirou's eyes widened slightly. Saber, acknowledging affection? Being sarcastic? Something _had _changed. Her entire demeanor was different. His Servant had never been so open...but then again, maybe that was the point. Here, she wasn't a Servant anymore.

"Shirou? Are you well?"

He smiled at her obvious concern. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's...um, good to see you again, Sa- I mean Arturia."

Her answering smile made his heart jump a little. "I feel the same."

Lancelot looked between them with interest, but said nothing. Saber - Arturia turned, and the red-haired beauty Shirou had seen earlier stepped forward. She was even more breathtaking close up; her features were the classical embodiment of aesthetic perfection. It was as if she had stepped out of a painting.

Having been introduced to her companion, Shirou was already certain he knew her identity, and it was confirmed when Saber spoke up once more.

"This is Guinevere, princess of Cameliard and daughter of my ally King Leodegrance. Gwen, this is Emiya Shirou, a very good friend of mine."

"And more than that, if that display in the hall was anything to go by." Guinevere's voice was no less stunning than her appearance, a gentle whisper as smooth as silk and as soft as a summer breeze. "Really, Arturia. Even if you hadn't kissed the man in full view of your knights, the stories you tell about him reveal everything. You're not very good at hiding your feelings, dear."

Arturia flushed, stammering incoherently as bright red stained her cheeks. Guinevere serenely ignored her, turning instead to address Shirou. "Pay her no mind, goodman Shirou." Shirou noticed that, unlike Calogrenant's vocal stumbling, the princess pronounced his name perfectly, as had Lancelot earlier. "It is quite the opportunity to meet you."

"And you, Guinevere." Lancelot stiffened slightly, and Shirou cursed to himself. "I'm sorry - princess Guinevere." He'd allowed himself to get hypnotized by the melodious current of her voice; it was nothing like he'd ever heard before.

The princess offered him a weary smile, wry yet understanding. "It is alright. I appear to have that effect upon many people. A pity neither Meleagant nor Valerin were as polite as you."

Lancelot's eyes flashed at the mention of the names. "Blackhearts and yellow-livered curs the both of them. They overstepped their bounds."

Arturia sighed, sitting down at the table, which was apparently a signal for the others to sit as well. "They both met their ends, Lance: Meleagant at your sword and Valerin at Sir Toshiro's. I would rather not speak of them; they are long-dead and not missed."

"Of course, my lord." Lancelot agreed. "I should not taint your day of happiness with such remembrances."

The once-and-future king gave her knight a grateful nod. "Thank you, Lance." She turned again, fixing Shirou with her bright green eyes. "But there is an order of business to attend to." Arturia hesitated.

"Shirou...as happy as I am to see you here, how is it that you came to be here? It should not be possible for you to exist in this realm."

Shirou frowned. "Yeah, Sir Calogrenant said something about that too, but he didn't elaborate." He shrugged. "I don't know. One moment I was fighting hybrid monsters and the next I woke up in a meadow."

Arturia regarded him with such an intense stare he began to feel uncomfortable. Not that he had any objections to being looked at, especially by her, but the gaze she currently had fixed upon him was vaguely similar to the look she tended to give Gilgamesh when he was spouting off his nonsense. He shifted awkwardly in his seat.

Lancelot saved him. "Perhaps you should let him explain, milord. Your stare, as effective as it is in unnerving your foes, is not the best tool for this situation."

Guinevere laughed, the sound like a harp. "He's not a Roman ambassador, Arturia." She favored Shirou with a wink. "He's much more pleasant since he isn't demanding tribute, allegiance, your beard, or some other such nonsense."

Roman? Shirou cocked an eyebrow. From what tales of King Arthur he had made himself read, the monarch had supposedly existed in the early Middle Ages. This clashed rather badly with established history, which claimed the Britons had been eliminated by their Saxon enemies long before then. Adding to the mess was the tendency for history itself to be rather confused when Heroic Spirits were involved.

"You fought Romans, S- Arturia?"

Arturia's blush had subsided, and she nodded. "Yes. His name was Lucius Tiberius. He styled himself Emperor not only of Rome but of Gaul and even Britain. He demanded that I pay tribute to him and acknowledge him as my liege lord. I refused, of course, but at the time I was quite busy establishing my claim over the rebels who would usurp my throne. Once I had subdued Lot, Nanters, Carados and the others, I had the time to repay his threats and arrogant proclamations."

As she talked, Arturia grew more animated, hands moving quickly in short, sharp gestures. She'd taken off her gauntlets, and so Shirou could see her limbs move with a dainty grace that belied both her speed and power. He smiled slightly to see her so excited.

Guinevere was watching the girl-turned-king as well, and there was a fond light in her sea-green eyes. Lancelot's face was sterner and more martial, as to be expected, but the same quality could be found in his darker gaze if Shirou looked hard enough.

"...After I subdued the bandits and raiders who preyed on Britain's coasts, I took my armies and sailed to Gaul. There I encountered the Roman Legions, but under a rebellious commander named Flollo who was resisting his emperor. He knew he could not defeat my army, so he retreated into Paris. My scouts told me he was attempting to gather more forces. Instead of giving him the time, my army besieged the town..."

* * *

"...the Romans were relocated and my armies marched onward to vanquish the Roman Emperor," Arturia concluded. "It requires its own story, but I think that is enough for this repast."

"You know," Shirou said slowly, "back during the war, you called me out for wanting to save everyone."

Arturia nodded, but he could detect a chastened air about her. She knew where this was going.

"You, King Arthur," the faker said with great dignity, "are a hypocrite."

Guinevere threw her head back and laughed, the clear, high tone ringing through the chamber. Lancelot only smiled, but his eyes sparkled with mirth.

"I had thought this already well-established," remarked the white knight, "Our most gracious lord has a very good head when telling others what not to do, but fails tremendously in following her own advice."

Arturia turned red again, and seeing this Shirou headed off the oncoming explosion. "It's fine, it's fine. I would be just as big of a hypocrite if I was actually mad at you about this."

And he wasn't. Leaving aside the fact that Arturia would have to do a lot to get him genuinely angry, he had come to terms with the world and its refusal to countenance his ideals. That didn't mean he wouldn't stop trying to protect as many as he could, but he now understood why everyone around him thought he was either naive or insane. He smiled gently at Arturia, hoping to convey these sentiments that way instead of through imperfect, stumbling words. In return he received another smile so uninhibited he could honestly not remember seeing during the days of the Grail War. Though Guinevere said nothing and Lancelot chose to take a discreet sip of ale, he had the feeling they hadn't missed it.

"Very well," Arturia nodded, "but I still wish to know how and why you are here, Shirou." She cast a scathing glance at Lancelot, who only smiled. "Lance may have diverted me once, but no more."

Shirou shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. And by the way, mind telling me where here is, anyway?"

"Avalon." his three companions all responded simultaneously. They glanced at each other in mild surprise, then Lancelot took up the thread of conversation.

"You know, of course, of the contracts the Grail makes with those it deems worthy?" Shirou nodded. "My lord's contract was different than, for example, mine. Instead of making it with the Grail she made it with the World itself, and instead of being placed on the Throne of Heroes, she was instead offered the chance to compete for the Grail indefinitely. If she won, she would then become one of the Counter-Guardians to help the world stave off chaos." His words were neutral, but his tone definitely conveyed disapproval.

For a moment Shirou's mind betrayed him by conjuring up an image of Arturia wearing both Archer's ubiquitous red cloak and black armor, and his characteristic smirk. In order to stop himself from laughing, he asked the first question he could think of.

"So you weren't a complete Heroic Spirit?" Arturia nodded. "Is that why you couldn't go into spirit form even when the others could." Arturia nodded again, red coloring her cheeks. "So...that wasn't my fault?" Again Arturia nodded, blushing. Guinevere chuckled.

Arturia shook her head as if to clear it and returned to the story. "After I realized that you were indeed correct and there was no reason to rewrite the past, I let go of my wish and returned to my body. The World had somehow frozen time at the exact point before I would have died of my wounds."

How did that even work, Shirou wondered. That specific point in history was frozen, so nothing could happen after that...but time flowed still, so obviously the Grail could correct for that. Still, that meant she could be summoned multiple times to any point in time because she was outside of it...

He decided to stop thinking about it before his brain broke.

"When I decided I no longer wanted the Grail, the terms of the contract were broken. I was finally allowed to die."

Shirou shivered just at the thought of her death. She noticed and put a hand gently over his own, removing it after a moment.

"Merlin had given me a prophecy, a long time ago," she continued. "He said that, long after I had laid down the burden of kingship, I would have a chance at happiness with someone. He said that in order for me to have this chance, I would have to wait forever. To fulfill that prophecy, the other person would have to search forever." She sniffed. "To be honest, I never did believe him."

"Avalon is the idea of the world that I fought for when I was alive, so that when I finally died I ended up here." She smiled again. "It is...most pleasant to be with my warriors and yet be free of responsibilities here."

"So... this is your version of Valhalla... your heaven." Shirou replied. It was incredible, then. He hadn't just jumped realities, then; he'd crossed over into a land created solely from ideals and hopes, a world that could never exist in the reality that he called home. It was his old Servant's fondest wish.

"It's good that you're here. I don't know anyone who deserves it more."

Arturia's cheeks flamed spectacularly, the returned reddish color contrasting sharply against her pale skin.

"Aye," Lancelot murmured, and the blonde knight shot him a dirty glare even as the blush climbed higher.

"But how are you here, Shirou?" Guinevere mused. "This is a plane for the spirits of the deceased, and from what I gather you are not yet deceased."

"I can explain that."

Guinevere stiffened noticeably, while Lancelot's face took on a neutral cast. Shirou looked up and saw two new individuals approaching their table.

The first thing he noticed about the woman who stood before them was, naturally, her eyes. They were exactly the same shade as Arturia's, but filled with a depth of understanding and sorrow that even the British king's could not match. Long black hair trailed down her shoulders and her back, spilling over the simple black dress she wore.

"Morgana," Arturia smiled warmly, standing up from her seat. Lancelot and Guinevere rose dutifully, as did Shirou half a second later, though neither of them looked pleased.

"Sister," the other woman replied, mirroring her smile. They embraced, and Arturia turned to Shirou.

"Shirou, this is my sister Morgana."

"A pleasure," Morgana inclined her head. Shirou bowed in response, and as he did he felt the surge of mana within the newcomer's body.

"Likewise,"

Morgana pivoted to address the other two. "Guinevere, Lancelot. It is heartening to see you both well."

Lancelot tilted his head, barely noticeably, and Guinevere smiled tightly. Arturia looked between the three, a frown lurking on her lips. Tension crackled in the air, and then Shirou decided it was best to intervene.

"What were you saying, mi'lady?"

Morgana fixed him with a gentle gaze. "It is just Morgana now, if you please. And yes, Shirou," like the others she pronounced his name perfectly, leading Shirou to wonder how often Arturia had talked about him, "I know why you are here, though it is somewhat bizarre."

The faker shrugged. "I've had plenty of that ever since I was six years old."

Morgana sat down gracefully on a nearby chair, neatly pulling out her skirts as she did so. Her companion, an armored knight wearing a full-visored helmet, remained standing.

"You know that Avalon exists outside of time and space, like the Holy Grail. The passing of eternity means nothing here. There was no beginning, and there will be no end." She smirked, a rather striking expression on her equally-stunning face. "I have been watching you ever since Arturia arrived here in Avalon, but since time does not exist I cannot tell you how long in terms that would make sense."

Shirou raised an eyebrow. "The sun's been moving along the sky since I got here. That means you have days, don't you?"

Morgana laughed, an elegant thing. "And what do they mean? Avalon is a construction of my sister's making; the days only pass because she is used to them doing so. They mean absolutely nothing."

A sinking feeling settled in the faker's chest. "So...I could pull a Rip van Winkle?" Morgan cocked an eyebrow. "I'll come back decades later than the point I came from," he amended.

The enchantress let out a breath, eyes darkening and face taking on a grim cast. "Ah, yes. As Avalon resides outside the stream of time, it is not affected by time's passing. You are now outside time; should you step back into it you will do so at the moment you left it."

"Great, so how do I get back?" Shirou stood, brushing off his hands.

To his surprise, the enchantress scowled. "Are you so eager to leave our company?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice. "Find you our presence trying?"

His long experience with women warning him of a pitfall, Shirou backpedaled. "Of course not!" he hedged, "but I still have things to do." His weak excuse apparently did not satisfy the sorceress, who looked down at him with something approaching anger.

"Was he always this monumentally stupid?" Morgana demanded of Arturia, ignoring him. The British king said nothing, not meeting her gaze. The enchantress snapped her gaze back up, fixing Shirou with a cold stare.

"Must I elucidate even more for you? If you leave here," Morgana enunciated, as if talking to a small child, "you will never see us again. Do I have to continue?" She sniffed in derision. "Of course I do. You spent a week convincing my sister you were quite in love with her, somehow persuading her to let go of the goal that defined her life, and now that you are finally reunited with her you are just going to return to your foolish, unenlightened crusade?" Her voice had risen to the level of a shout. "You are a liar, Emiya Shirou. You are a hollow shell of a human being, obsessed with the wishes of a dying man. You hold no true hopes or goals for yourself beyond pursuing a fallacy and refusing to reconsider that perhaps your purpose is futile." Morgan lifted her chin, and though he towered over the seated sorceress Shirou suddenly felt tiny. The true meaning of what she had said, under all the haranguing, struck him.

"I...can't come back here?"

Morgan lifted her chin haughtily. "By all rights you should not be here now, but the prophecy has been fulfilled. When Merlin told me of this even I considered it unlikely, but it has become truth. She has waited, and now you have come."

Shirou cast a glance at Arturia, who still refused to look up at him. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? A utopia where she no longer had to bear the terrible responsibility of kingship, surrounded by her loyal warriors, and now with her lover at her side. She had waited for him, and now he was here. And now he had to consider the question, did he want to leave? Avalon represented his ideals as much as hers. No one died here; life and joy were the mainstays of this paradise. Here no one fought or died, and everyone could seek their happy ending. Here there was no need for a hero to make sure those happy endings would happen.

Did he even want to be a hero anymore? It was a hard and thankless life, putting his life and usually his friends' in danger to save people who as often cursed him as thanked him. His same friends had often urged him to abandon his path; Rin simply told him it was stupid, Ilya wanted him to spend more time with her, Sakura disliked how frequently he came home bleeding, and Shiki constantly yelled at him for "having to take time off from humanizing Ryougi and save your sorry ass," Honestly, he had never liked being a hero once he had become one. It was always pain and fear, desperation that he might not save those people and a burning determination that he had to, no matter the cost.

Being a hero may have been his dream, but once he achieved it it was never something he looked forward to.

Avalon was seductive. It called to him, and what it represented was oh-so-tempting. Peace, someplace to escape his burdens, and the company of the woman he loved most.

For the first time in his life, Shirou had no idea what to do.

"Might I add my thoughts?" Lancelot's gentle voice pulled him back to the present. "Everyone here has known each other since the days of the Table Round. We know each other well, perhaps too well. A new face would be most welcomed, and as Arturia's beloved the knights would treat you with the utmost respect."

"Lance," Guinevere chided, and the knight scratched his head in embarrassment. She turned her brilliant eyes on Shirou. "We cannot tell you what you want, Shirou, and even if we could we would not. A person's fate is theirs to choose." She paused, grimacing. "It may seem an empty platitude, but follow your heart. Listen to it, and it will tell you what you must do."

"Whichever choice you make, it will not be easy," Morgana put in, and he saw that her eyes had softened, though her tone had not. "You stand at a crossroads, and there is no turning back. You had best consider this choice wisely."

"But not now, I think," Arturia suddenly cut in for the first time, locking eyes with Shirou. "It is about time for our evening repast, and I do not wish for you to worry away your time here. Put it aside, for now."

Lancelot grinned abruptly. "I have just the tale to lighten your mood; let me tell you of the malicious dwarf who sought to steal the under-clothes of every man and woman in Camelot..."

Shirou was still chuckling long after supper had ended and the various knights had adjourned to their quarters. Normally, Lancelot had explained, warriors slept in the hall, but Avalon defied the normal rules and each knight had his own set of rooms. Arturia's subconscious was apparently considerate like that.

When he asked where he would sleep, Morgana had given him an evil look and opened her mouth before Guinevere hastily intervened and said, "Arturia will show you." Which had led him here, to this spacious room that was apparently Arturia's.

"This is a nice room." The bed alone was the biggest he had ever seen, though having lived in a country where futons were more the preferred furniture for sleeping, perhaps his experience was limited. Lengths of cloth analogous to curtains hung around the bed, seemingly intended for privacy, though why privacy would be needed for the bed only was ambiguous. There were really only two activities conducted on a bed, one required no privacy and the other was too noisy for curtains to really conceal.

"I am glad you like it." Arturia's smile was the brightest it had been since Morgana had brought up the issue of leaving. Shirou chose tactfully not to broach it right now.

"So...where do I sleep?"

Arturia laughed, startling him. He still wasn't quite used to this more emotional version of his former Servant, but that wasn't to say he didn't like it.

"On this bed, Shirou. I am certain it is large enough for both of us."

"Well, yeah," he fumbled, wondering why he was so awkward. This was Saber, for gods' sake. Not only had they _slept_ together in a futon, they had slept_ togethe_r in a crumbling old church while a semidivine killing machine hunted for them, "but is it proper?"

Arturia radiated amusement. "Proper is what I say it is, Shirou, and what I say now is for my former Master to cease prattling and join me in bed." She suited actions to words by leaping nimbly onto the massive bed and pulling herself underneath the comforter.

Shirou gave a mental shrug and then a physical one to get out of his red cloak. The crimson cloth fluttered to the ground without much of an effort. His armor took more effort, but after a few minutes he was dressed only in the cloth tunic and pants he wore under it. With that done, he lingered awkwardly near the side of the bed.

"You act as if we had never done this before." Arturia's soft voice reached his ears as she looked at him. "If my memories do not betray me, we shared the same futon, which is much smaller than this bed."

"At your insistence," he grumbled half-heartedly. "I didn't want you to do it."

"Are you saying you do not want to share this bed with me?" Arturia's eyes went wide with mock surprise. "You find me displeasing to the eye, perhaps?"

"No," he admitted, and decided to get it over with. He slipped under the covers, flailing around for a moment. The bed was so _big. _He was drowning in its softness, and for a bed of a centuries-old type it was very comfortable.

Arms closed around him from behind, nudging him in the right direction. He turned into the embrace, coming nose-to-nose with Arturia. Her lips quirked at him and he smiled back, pulling her tight into the crevice of his own arms.

It finally hit him; he was in bed with his lover, the subject of countless dreams both innocuous and erotic. She was tangible and warm beside him, without the specter of the Holy Grail War hanging over them to cast its black shadow.

He didn't intend to kiss her, at least not at first. He glimpsed a flash of green as her eyes widened, then felt the tiny moan she released against his lips. One small hand laid itself across his cheek while the other gripped the back of his neck.

Shirou wondered, for a fleeting moment, whether or not he could even consider leaving now, but then Arturia was tugging at his shirt and thought stopped all together.

* * *

The sunlight shining through the glass window woke him up.

Normally, he would be out of bed as soon as the sun rose, checking with the agents who provided him information to see if there was a crisis he had to avert. There was always something to do, whether it was to Reinforce the support girders of an earthquake-stricken skyscraper or defend a town from a horde of undead.

Today, he just lay in the bed and watched the world wake up.

A slight stirring within his armcage made him look down. Arturia slept pressed to his chest, her breaths wisping against his bare skin. She looked even more like a young girl than she normally did, the cares of conscious life absent from her countenance. As he watched she mumbled something and shifted position against him, trailing fingers across his back. He smiled and relaxed into the bed, letting his eyes droop shut again.

When next he awoke, she wasn't there. Panic gripped him immediately, and he willed Kanshou and Bakuya into his hands, leaping out of the bed with swords posed.

"Shirou?!"

He turned at the exclamation to see Arturia by the window, fully dressed and gaping at him.

"Saber! You're...alright," he trailed off, feeling heat bloom in his cheeks. His former Servant frowned.

"Yes, I am unharmed. Are you feeling well, Shirou?" She went to him immediately, laying a hand on his forehead. "You do not appear to be feverish."

"No, no, I'm fine," he chuckled nervously, moving to scratch the back of his head. Finding that both swords were still in his hands, he banished them with an irritated look.

"Do you always rise so...forcefully?" Arturia inquired dryly, eyes lingering below. Shirou looked down and flushed again. Rather than replying, he chose instead to redress himself in his clothes. Arturia's eyes followed him as he donned each piece of his armor, and as he pulled the red cloak over his back she stepped forward to take his hand.

"Shirou...we must talk."

"Yes?"

"About...your return."

His stomach sank. Damnit, he hadn't wanted to talk about this right now.

"What about it?"

Arturia was silent for a long moment, simply looking at him. The tension in his stomach grew into a tight knot. Just as he was beginning to think she had forgotten what to say, she opened her mouth.

"I believe you should go."

That was definitely not what he expected to hear. "What?"

Arturia lifted her chin in a move that would have been haughty any other time, but her eyes shimmered wetly.

"You will not - cannot - be happy here. Come." With that, she took him by the hand and pulled him out of the room. Shirou let her, mind whirling rapidly. He had no idea what was happening, but he was pretty sure it wasn't anything good.

They were approaching the main hall when Shirou pulled his hand out of her grip.

"Saber, tell me what's going on." He locked eyes with her, as if he could see into her mind. He couldn't be happy in Avalon? When she was here, happier than he had ever seen her? "What do you mean I should go?"

Saber smoothed her hands along her tunic without breaking the stare, then took a long breath.

"Shirou, I know you. You cannot live in this world, because you will always be thinking of yours, where innocents are hurt and killed every day. You have made yourself into an tool, an instrument of justice; in Avalon, you will not be able to fulfill your desire. You told me it was your dream, to become a hero, but Avalon needs no heroes."

"You're part of my dream, too." Shirou told her quietly. He saw the mist in her eyes grow more pronounced, then she shook her head sharply.

"I do not think you can put me before your dream. You thrive on ideals, Shirou, and you have ever since Kiritsugu adopted you." Her voice trembled. Instinctively, he stepped forward to hold her but she backed away.

"Your world, and your calling, needs you far more than I do." She tried to smile, a horrible, broken mockery of the radiant expression he'd seen only yesterday. "I do not begrudge you for it, I too had to attend to my duty above all others."

Clarity hit him like a punch to the guts.

"This isn't about duty," he hissed, trying to ignore the ice seeping into his stomach. "I love you, Arturia. If this is the only chance that I'll ever get to see you again, then world be damned." With a brief flash of surprise, he realized that he meant every word he said. They'd both given up so much for a world that needed more; if he had to choose he would let the world take care of itself for once.

"Morgana said I needed to make a choice." He smiled at her, trying to convey his utter sincerity. "I've made it. I'm staying with you."

Arturia bit her lip, then shook her head again sharply.

"I cannot let you make this choice." She gripped his hand again, and with more strength than a pale slip of a girl had a right to possess dragged him towards the doors to the main hall.

"It's my choice to make!" he growled, trying to pull free, but Arturia's grip was implacable. She reached the doors and pushed one open, bringing them both into the main hall. This early in the morning only a few people were present, taking their morning repast.

"Sister," Arturia called, and the sorceress rose elegantly from her seat, "I require your aid."

Morgana drifted over to them with an ethereal grace. "You have made your choice, then." Her eyes were unreadable.

"He has," Arturia lifted her chin in that same, proud manner. Shirou gritted his teeth.

"Yes, I have," he declared, voice ringing. "I'd prefer to stay here."

A flash of surprise crossed Morgana's features. "So you do," she exhaled. "Then that settles the matter. I assume he will be staying in your chambers, so there is no need to tell the seneschal to prepare another room-"

"No!" Arturia snapped angrily, and Morgana swiveled to look at her, startled. "Emiya Shirou will not be staying any longer. Complete the ceremony to return him to his world." She'd caught the attention of the entire room, who stared at her with looks of shock and bemusement.

"What if I don't want to return?" Shirou yelled back at her. Someone muttered in disapproval, but he was too angry to care.

"It is not a matter of what you want!" Arturia's words came out unevenly, stumbling out of her mouth. "It is a matter of what is good for you!"

"Being here is good for me!" The hero roared back at her. "You always told me my approach to life was stupid and suicidal, right?! Here I can fix that! I love you!" He focused on his anger, stoking its flames, trying to ignore the icy dagger reaching for his heart.

"Love is not enough!" Arturia cried back. "You are who you are, Shirou, and nothing can change that. If I kept you here, preventing you from fulfilling your calling, you would never be happy!"

"Just because you put your damned duty over love doesn't mean everyone will!" he raged, desperation sharpening his voice with malice. "What about your knight and your queen?!"

Arturia's head jerked back as if she'd been slapped. Shirou flinched as well, remorse welling up inside him and dousing his wrath.

"Arturia, I'm sorry..." he reached out to her. "Please, let me stay."

He hesitated, searching for the right words.

"Arturia, I..." he sucked in a breath, "I did want to save everyone I could, to make sure everyone had a happy ending. And I did my best to carry out Kiritsugu's dream. But that was before I met you."

The once and future king sniffed haughtily. "You are still carrying it out, are you not? It is still your dreams, everything you have ever wished for."

"Not anymore," Shirou said firmly. "I've made my choice-" he raised a hand before Arturia could protest, "and yes, I can make one! I'm not leaving you again." He placed that hand on her shoulder. "I turned to my ideals because they reminded me of you. But I don't need that reminder anymore."

The king did not meet his eyes, nor did she speak. The silence stretched on, a bleak, oppressive thing that weighed heavily on Shirou's shoulders and constricted his breath.

"Please," he murmured, when he could take no more. "Please."

Something like a whimper came out of Arturia's mouth, then she closed her eyes and shook her head again, this time much more savagely. A twist of her body dislodged Shirou's grip.

"I cannot trust your word on this, Shirou."

His stomach plummeted.

"Saber, wait-"

"Sir Calogrenant, Sir Caradoc!" Both knights stood up immediately, Calogrenant hastily wiping his face with the back of one hand. "You escorted Emiya Shirou here, you may escort him back."

No one moved. Arturia scowled. "Well?"

"Your Majesty," Lancelot said hesitantly from behind her, "it seems to me you might wish to delay a decision on such an important matter. Perhaps take a day to reflect on the situation?"

"I have done all the reflecting I need," Arturia's words were clipped, her tone curt. "What I _wish _for is to have my orders followed."

In the hush that fell, Calogrenant and Caradoc exchanged glances. The helmeted knight nodded slowly, and then strode purposely towards Shirou. Reluctantly, Calogrenant followed, one hand going to the sword at his belt.

"Please come quietly, Goodman Syrowe," the bigger knight requested. "This needs not be unpleasant."

"It already is," Shirou snarled. Light flashed, a hot blue flare, and twin blades appeared in his hands. Kanshou, black as night and Bakuya, purest white, gleamed together. "I don't want to do this!"

As soon as the blades appeared, the knights separated. Caradoc began pacing left while Calogrenant circled right. The smaller knight held his massive axe in both hands, hefting it carefully, while his companion kept one hand on his blade.

"Arturia," Shirou's attention was drawn by a quiet voice, "please reconsider."

Saber's gaze was like iron. "I will not."

"Why?" Shirou cried, then jerked to the right as Caradoc's axe swung for his arm. Kanshou darted for the blade, deflecting it with a clang. The knight was unable to dodge Bakuya's riposte, but his chainmail shirt prevented the white sword from doing anymore than sliding against the metal links.

A flash of metal caught his eye and he pivoted. Strong arms closed around him, trapping him in a bear hug. He grunted in pain and tried to move, but his arms were pinioned against his sides.

"Forgive me, goodman Syrowe." Calogrenant growled, increasing the pressure. "This will be over soon."

"Yes, it will," Shirou hissed in reply. Prana rushed through his circuits, heating his body. He slammed his forehead into the bridge of Calogrenant's nose, silently thankful that the knight was unhelmeted. Cartilage crunched and Calogrenant staggered back, loosening his hold. Shirou twisted free and sent the knight tumbling with a solid kick to the chest, then spun quickly to deflect an overhead blow from Caradoc. Both swords grated against the axe haft as Caradoc pushed down, trying to draw him into a contest of strength. Shirou was only too happy to oblige.

Prana flowed into his arms and he leaned forward. Caradoc's boots slid against the stone floor as he struggled against the sudden surge of strength. Shirou turned his wrist, keeping Kanshou against the axe while Bakuya slid free and stabbed forward, sliding into the weak joint of the knight's armpit. Caradoc grunted, the first sound Shirou had heard him make, and fell backwards, arterial blood spurting from the wound. Without pausing, Shirou turned and launched himself at Calogrenant, still off-balance. The knight deflected Kanshou with his right hand and Bakuya with his left, but Shirou turned both blades in opposite directions. Calogrenant cried out as the scimitars crossed and pierced his arms at the elbows. Shirou slid both blades free quickly and stepped away.

Drops of blood spattered the floor.

All the remaining knights in the room drew their weapons in one surge of sound.

"Shirou!" Arturia stepped forward, flames blazing in her eyes. The cold, distant look was gone; the knight had replaced the king. "Stop immediately!"

"No!" Shirou screamed back. "I'm not leaving!"

Behind him, in the vague direction Caradoc had fallen, there was a sudden gasp, but no one paid it any mind.

"You have gone too far!" Arturia stormed. She wore no weapon, but she stood as if that didn't matter. "You defy my wishes and injure my sworn men-"

"I didn't want to!" Shirou thundered. "But I'm not losing you. Never again!"

Arturia slumped suddenly. "You never had any choice in the matter, Shirou."

"Why do you keep talking about choices?" The faker screamed.

"Because who my sister is, what she represents, never allowed her to make a true choice." Morgana stepped in between them, hands held out at her sides. Shirou recognized the inherent tension in her posture as that of a magus preparing herself for evocations. "Sir Ector did perhaps too good of a job raising her; she would never place herself above her duty and her ideals."

Shirou winced, and Morgana gifted him with a sarcastic smile.

"She feels that you are much the same way; that you cannot be anything other than what you were made by your life." The sorceress tucked a lock of raven hair behind her ear. "That you are too inflexible and too stubborn to give up your irrational and illogical ideas to ever be happy here. I am inclined to agree with her."

He felt his lips draw back over his teeth in a snarl. "Shut up! You don't know me!"

"One does not need to 'know you' to understand that you do not belong here," Morgana's tone was colder than a glacier. "You are a close-minded, pig-headed individual, too proud to admit you are wrong and too selfish to realize you do more harm than good." A wave of a hand encompassed Caradoc, lying supine on the stone. "You have just killed this man."

Shirou's blood ran cold.

"What?"

Arturia turned pale, and without a word ran to the fallen knight's side.

Morgana folded her arms. "As I expected. You took his life for your own selfish purposes, despite your hypocritical ideals and your moronic protestations." Her lips curled in cruel amusement. "Why does a man who seeks to 'save everyone' carry weapons that only maim and kill?"

"That's my origin!" Shirou snapped back. "I can't help it, it's just-"

"How you are," Morgana interrupted. "Indeed. How appropriate." Green eyes, so like her sister's, blazed. "A sword is unique among weapons, as you well know." She began to pace. "A bow or a spear can be used for hunting, an axe to gather firewood. A staff may serve as a crutch, and a club as a tool to discipline uncouth ruffians. But a sword...it is not of a suitable length for hunting, nor can it be repurposed to hew down trees. It was made by men to kill men, and that is the only thing it can do."

It was too much to take in. He hadn't meant to kill Caradoc, only to incapacitate him. The strike had gone into the armpit, true, but the blow shouldn't have severed more than one artery. It wasn't supposed to be fatal. He'd practiced that strike so many times. It had to have worked. It had to. A man was dying, and this arrogant sorceress was _lecturing _him.

"Shut up!" he barked, making to rush for the fallen knight. He was no doctor, but he'd picked up a few things over the years. His path was blocked, though, by Morgana casually stepping in his way, as if he didn't have a few inches and a couple dozen pounds on her.

"That is exactly what I speak of," she said. "You deny what contradicts your silly mindset because you have spent your entire life locked into it because of the dreams of a dying man. You cannot change, because you _will _not change."

"How do you know that?" Shirou shifted, but she moved with him. Something told him it would be beyond stupid to try to barge past her. "People change!"

Morgana tilted her head. "But you are not a person. You have forged yourself into an instrument, an ideal, much like my sister. Perhaps it is why she grew close to you; gods above and below know that you have few other redeeming qualities."

"Enough with the lectures! Get out of my way-"

"So that you can do what?" Morgana folded her arms, remaining infuriatingly calm. "A sword cannot heal the harm it has caused."

"Stop talking in metaphors!"

"Why? They are the only way to describe you. Tell me, how does it feel to be a tool of death? That you have perverted the ideal you hold so dear?"

"Shut up!"

"We are what we make ourselves." A touch of sadness entered the sorceress' husky voice. "My sister made herself a king, I made myself a witch, and you made yourself a destroyer. Perhaps it is a coincidence that we three regret everything we have done."

"I don't-" The denial came out reflexively, and he cut it off mid-sentence. Morgana's eyes narrowed.

"Then if you do not regret, my sister and I are right."

Arturia rose silently from beside Caradoc's body, and Shirou immediately tensed. The king's features were immobile, every bit as cold and untouchable as they had been in the workshop, so long ago.

"Emiya Shirou," Never before had his own name caused him so much dread, "you have committed murder most foul. You have shattered the peace of my sanctuary and slain one of my loyal knights."

"No - I didn't mean to-" His words stuttered as they left his mouth.

Arturia continued inexorably, her voice mechanical and precise. "As much as it pains me to do this, you are exiled from Avalon forever. You have devoted yourself to an ideal that makes you unsuitable to live here."

On an unspoken cue, Lancelot and a helmeted knight Shirou hadn't seen before stepped forward. The faker lifted both his blades reflexively, but neither knight drew his own weapon, or even slowed their pace. They split, and each grabbed one of his arms in gauntleted hands. Shirou struggled, but their combined strength overmatched his.

"Disarm him."

Lancelot twisted the arm gripped in his gauntlets, and Kanshou clattered to the ground. The other knight opted for a more brutal approach, slamming Shirou's outstretched arm across his knee. Bakuya joined its sister blade on the floor.

Arturia looked at him, and he pushed fruitlessly at his assailants. His efforts were rewarded by a kick to the back of his knee, and he crashed to the tiles.

"Damnit, stop! Let me go!"

Guinevere stood nearby, her beautiful face set into grim lines. Morgana's heels clicked as she paced around him. In the back, Calogrenant clutched his arms as his fellow knights bound his wounds, his face pale.

Caradoc's body lay limp upon the floor.

Her tunic rustling, Arturia knelt so that their faces were level. He met her gaze squarely, eyes pleading with her. She closed her own, then shook her head slightly. Emerald spheres stared back at him, cloudy with tears but resolute.

"I do this for your own good, just as much as to punish you," she whispered, the words audible only to them. "You could never be happy here. In Avalon there is no need for a hero."

She caressed his cheek once, fingers ghosting lightly against the skin. Then she stood and turned away.

"Sister," Morgana looked up. "Banish him."

The sorceress curtsied. "Of course." She nodded curtly to Lancelot and the helmed knight, who dragged Shirou to his feet. They forced him forward, step by step. He dug in his heels, but that proved of little use against the smooth tiles.

Knights rushed to the gates and pulled them open. This time the star-studded velvet of the night sky greeted them instead of the light of the afternoon day. The knights pulled him out of the castle, and the gates creaked as they were shut once more.

Shirou's mind spun wildly. He couldn't let this happen. He needed to get back inside, to somehow convince Arturia that he was worth it. How, he didn't know, but he couldn't leave her again. He would give up anything and everything to be with her. First, though, he needed to escape.

Prana molded itself to his command, and a long knife appeared in his right hand. Before the helmeted knight could react, he reversed the weapon and plunged it into the mailed links at the knight's elbow. Metal screeched and parted; the knight grunted in pain and released him.

Lancelot reacted viciously, thundering one fist into Shirou's face. The world spun, stars flashed before his eyes, and he stumbled back. The white knight had kept a grip on his arm and followed up by yanking Shirou forward to smash a fist into his gut. Shirou thrust with the knife, a weak blow easily turned aside by Lancelot's plate. The faker received as a reward another punch to the gut, from which he collapsed to the dirt.

A hand closed around his throat. Lifting him like he weighed nothing, Lancelot strode forward to where Morgana stood, the sorceress muttering something under her breath as she gestured in the air.

"It will not be much longer, sir knight." The sorceress said without looking at Lancelot. "The spell is simple and will be finished soon."

"I wish for this business to be over," Lancelot said quietly.

"It will be, have no fear of that." Morgana responded absently.

"What will it do to the queen?" The knight asked. "She loved him."

"Perhaps," Morgana swept her arms through the air. The darkness on the ground began to congeal, as if forming something solid. "but she does not know how to traverse the tangled pathways of love. She clings to her duty though it means naught now."

"You should not have killed Caradoc, Emiya Shirou." Lancelot told the faker hanging in his grasp sadly.

"I didn't mean to!" Shirou choked out. "It was an accident."

Morgana scoffed. "If one cuts oneself with a sword by mischance it makes the wound no less real."

"SHUT UP!" Shirou screamed, his patience rent to shreds. "I AM NOT A SWORD!"

"Believe that all you wish." Morgana hummed underneath her breath, and at that the shadows stopped swirling. "It is done, sir knight. If you will?"

Lancelot nodded grimly, and without preamble or pomp tossed Shirou into the hole. The faker screamed as he felt himself falling into nothingness. He grasped at anything, trying to stop his fall. He called for prana but it refused to manifest. He tried to see, but there was nothing around him but blackness.

He fell.

* * *

The fiend screamed as it died, but Utena hadn't done anything. She looked down at the scimitar clutched in one hand, then back at the writhing, bleeding creature.

"Did I miss anything?"

A man stepped through the wreckage of the tower. He was dressed in a light blue jacket and matching pants, with long white bandages trailing from around his eyes. A long knife was in his hand, stained with the green blood of the fiend. He blinked as he saw Utena and stopped.

"Who are you?"

Utena stared at him. "Who are _you_?" she shot back.

Blue-grey eyes narrowed. "I asked you first."

"I was _here_ first!" Utena riposted.

The man sighed. "If you insist. Tohno Shiki, at your most reluctant service." He eyed the rubble around where they stood. "Wow, Shirou must have done a number on this place. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He's not exactly subtle."

"You know Shirou?" Utena asked, surprised. The man - Tohno - nodded.

"He's the reason I'm here. I was originally supposed to come with him here, but I...well," he coughed, suddenly looking embarrassed, "I got distracted."

Utena blinked, then blinked again, because now Tohno was no longer alone. A woman stood next to him, arms crossed over an expensive-looking red jacket. Underneath that she wore a kimono the color of the sky. A katana was slung over her shoulder, secured by a strap.

"Did you find him yet?" The woman sounded bored.

"No," Tohno scowled, "the bastard's probably buried under a pile of rocks as hard as his head. Trust him to be difficult."

His companion inspected her nails. "It takes one to know one."

"Stop talking nonsense."

"I'll stop that when you stop being a block-headed idiot."

"You - forget it. I don't even know why you're here. You said you had better things to do."

"I did, but Mana started yelling at me that I'm not supposed to leave my 'true love' to go on an 'epic battle' alone." The woman actually made air quotes with her fingers.

"What?"

"Don't ask me."

"Why not? She's your daughter."

"Yours now too."

"No."

"Yes."

"We're not married."

"So?"

"I'm not her father."

"Too bad. You're living in my house, you're father to my daughter."

Utena tried not to snicker. Tohno threw his hands up in disgust. "I should have stayed with Akiha."

The woman snorted. "Because having her tearing you apart when the blood rage took her is so much better than not having to pay rent."

"Sometimes I think it is. And what do you mean, not pay rent? You gouge like, ten million yen out of me each month."

"Five million. Get your numbers straight."

Some of the rubble nearby shifted, and Laura emerged looking none the worse for wear after being thrown off of a ten-story tower. She prowled quietly to Utena's side, eyes trained warily on the newcomers.

Tohno raised an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"

Utena nodded. "I'll introduce mine if you introduce yours."

Tohno gestured at his companion. "This is Ryougi Shiki, former heir to the Ryougi family and now aimless layabout living off the family fortune after her family bit the dust."

Utena arched an eyebrow, mirroring Tohno's earlier gesture. "Shiki? But isn't your name-"

"Yes," both Shikis said in perfect unison.

"Okay." Utena let it go. "This is Laura." She gestured at the little mutant, who made no move to acknowledge the introduction. "We're friends of Shirou. And speaking of him, shouldn't we be looking for him?"

"Oh yeah." Despite the revelation, Tohno made no move. "He'll be fine. He always is."

"Really?" Utena asked.

"Yeah. I once pulled the dumbass out of an erupting volcano after a Dead Apostle pushed him inside. Man, was he pissed off..."

* * *

He came to under a pile of rocks. For a moment, he wasn't sure what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a glint of white, and then falling for a long time...

"_Avalon has no need for a hero."_

Then he remembered.

He screamed and beat his fists against the rocks. They crumbled beneath his punches. He kicked out and writhed, slamming his body against the stones that imprisoned him. Prana flowed into his body as he pummeled granite, shattering the bonds that held the rocks together. He surged upwards in one motion and cast off the confining stones.

He stood in the ruins of what had once been a great tower. Corpses littered the area around him, all twisted, mis-happen creatures save one, a red-haired human. Genesis would never again threaten the world with his twisted schemes.

Shirou cared nothing about that. He raised his eyes to the sky and screamed. His throat was raw and dusty; it felt like knives were ripping apart his vocal cords. He didn't care. His lament continued, a raw denial in the face of stubborn, unyielding reality. Finally, when his voice was spent, he dropped to his knees and stared uncomprehendingly at the destruction before him.

His ideals were gone, exposed for the fragile lies and fallacies they were. The woman he loved had cast him out because of those same ideals, deeming him a weapon instead of a person, one too dangerous to allow in her paradise. He caused only carnage, killing instead of saving. He had nothing to live for.

For what felt like an eternity he knelt there, empty eyes gazing blankly at nothing.

**You forsake your existence.**

The voice came from nowhere, deep and commanding.

_Yes._

**Your life means nothing to you.**

_Yes._

**What will you do now?**

_Nothing. I have nothing to live for._

**Then give yourself to me.**

_...Why?_

**I will give you a purpose.**

_Who is this?_

**The Root.**

_...What are you offering?_

**I will give you power, more power than you have ever had. In return, when you die you will serve me as my guardian. You will preserve humanity and protect it from the catastrophes that threaten to erase man from existence. **

…

**It is hard. It is thankless and bleak. You will gain nothing, and lose nothing. You will fight an eternal war without ever seeing its conclusion.**

_...why not?_

**Then it is done.**

* * *

The harrowing scream had cut right through another argument between the two Shikis, this one about whether or not someone named 'Mikiya', who was apparently dead now, looked and acted like Tohno. Ryougi had firmly insisted he had, while Tohno had equally vehemently denied it. Utena was on the verge of threatening them both with her sword when the scream rendered everyone silent.

Laura was already dashing towards the source of the sound, and the others followed quickly. With everyone moving at top speed, they reached their target soon enough.

The man stood within a circle of ruin. A tattered red cloak flapped about his shoulders, exposing battered black armor and tanned, dark skin. Upon seeing this, Utena breathed a sigh of relief.

Tohno stepped forward. "Oi, Emiya! You okay?"

The man turned, and Utena gasped. Hair previously the color of blood was now white as bone. The golden eyes that had so often sparkled with mild humor and life had become a lifeless grey.

For a moment, no one spoke. Tohno was the first one to bridge the awkward gap.

"Spirits, Emiya. What happened to you?"

Those dark eyes locked onto Tohno's own, and the shorter man flinched slightly. Immediately Ryougi was at his side, flowing there with a liquid grace that seemed inhuman. She stared hard at Emiya, her own eyes promising death at one wrong move. At any other time, Utena would have been disturbed.

A deadly silence settled over the five people, before the man spoke.

"I fell."

Utena frowned. "Well, of course you did. You were on the top of the tower."

Emiya shook his head. "Not that. But it doesn't matter. Nothing does, anymore."

Without a word he moved forward. Both Shikis tensed, knives leaping into their hands, but Emiya swept past them before they could move.

"Hey!" Utena called to the fast-moving flash of red. "Where are you going?"

The man in red paused.

"I don't know. I don't care."

"Why don't we go back to your house?" The pink-haired prince yelled at his retreating back. "I don't know what happened to you, but I think you need to talk about it-"

Suddenly the man in red was in front of her, close enough that a breeze swept a lock of pink hair into his chin.

"You're right. You don't know. And you can't fix it. Nothing can."

For the second time, he was gone in a whirl of a red cape.

Tohno moved to stand beside her, his posture still tense.

"What happened to him?" he asked, but Utena could tell the question wasn't directed at her.

"I don't know," she murmured.

"He fell," Ryougi contributed. With the disappearance of the man in red she had reverted to her normal state of boredom.

Tohno whistled. "Must have been some fall."

"He is broken."

Utena turned to look at Laura, who fixed her with unwavering brown eyes. "What?"

"He is broken," the small girl repeated patiently. "He has lost something very dear to him. It has shattered him."

"How do you know that?" Utena queried, but Laura was already slipping away in the same direction Shirou had vanished. The older girl turned to the two Shikis.

"We'll catch up with him, try to figure out what happened." She offered, knowing instinctively that it would be for naught. "Maybe we can help him."

"You can't," Ryougi said disinterestedly. "He finally realized how stupid he's been for his entire life. From now on he'll be more brutal, violent, unforgiving." The kimono-clad woman lifted her gaze to where the man in red had been a moment ago. "It should be interesting."

Tohno shook his head. "We'll be heading back, then," he told Utena. "Keep an eye on him for me; I want to know if I have to bail the son of a bitch out of another jam." He left in a hurry, Ryougi ghosting behind him.

Utena was left alone, in the settling dust of a great structure now broken beyond repair. It would never rise again, never cast its proud shadow over miles and miles of land. She could not help wondering if it was a metaphor, and an ominous one. It did not bode well for her own future.

She too aspired to great things, to be the prince had met in her childhood. She too wished to challenge fate, to impose herself upon the landscape of time despite impossible obstacles. Was this what happened to those who wanted to change the world? Did their struggles leave them lying in the dust, shattered and ruined for the folly of wanting what was denied them?

After a long silence, Utena followed the others.


	2. Side-Story

Here's the flashback chapter. It was an excuse to train myself in writing fight scenes. I liked it, so I might just pick random characters and have them face off as a sort of writing exercise in the future. This flashback takes place as the story that Arturia is telling Shirou, as a frame of reference. The following is the preceding quote from the actual chapter.

"After I subdued the bandits and raiders who preyed on Britain's coasts, I took my armies and sailed to Gaul. There I encountered the Roman Legions, but under a rebellious commander named Flollo who was resisting his emperor. He knew he could not defeat my army, so he retreated into Paris. My scouts told me he was attempting to gather more forces. Instead of giving him the time, my army besieged the town..."

* * *

"_...and we are still waiting for word of his surrender."_

_The young knight fell silent and looked at Arturia expectantly._

"_Thank you. You are dismissed." He snapped one fist sharply to his breastplate - a Roman salute, Arturia thought ironically - and left. When the pavillion flap fell shut she allowed the calm mask to crumble and slumped into a chair, face in her hands. The siege had been going for a month now, yet the town still stood strong._

'_Strong' being a relative term._

_The Briton army had closed around Paris like the jaws of a bear snapping shut, sealing the town and its terrified inhabitants off from the outside world after ravaging the countryside so thoroughly that no farms existed to send any sort of food. No trade went in or out, what fields there were had been burned, and her warriors had ruthlessly defeated any relief expeditions._

_Arturia had been unsure of Flollo's reaction to the siege at first; his retreat to Paris and the reports that he was calling for reinforcements suggested that he wasn't in a position to take her army head-on, but all rumor said that he was a courageous fighter and inspired leader, and that kind of man would not allow himself to be besieged. Accordingly, she'd requested some few thousand more men from King Ban and was pleasantly surprised when they arrived with several thousand horsemen from Ban's brother Bors a week later. If Flollo was to attack, she would be ready._

_But he never did, and then the suicides started happening. People began throwing themselves from the walls, falling dozens of meters to slam into an unforgivingly hard ground. Knights sent to investigate returned with tales of gaunt, emaciated individuals who looked more like skeletons than they did people. Even Kay, underneath his facade of apathy and contempt, was horrified._

_As terrible as it was, Arturia had not let herself look away from the spectacle that she had caused. Though the knight cried out to relax the siege and end it in honorable combat, the king knew that if the price of victory was that the enemy died, then so be it._

_She rarely wore the crown anymore, even at formal functions. She no longer needed to, because she felt its weight all the time._

"_There you are! You haven't made yourself easy to find, my dear!" A flutter of dark green cloth preceded the voice. She didn't look up; he was the only one who could enter her tent without a hundred zealous knights raising hell._

"_Merlin," she acknowledged the newcomer tiredly._

"_I had no idea that you were in Gaul, Arturia!" The old wizard's voice was as cheerful as ever. "I come back from banishing demons and treating pretty women to dinner, and Camelot is as empty as poor Kay's head. Dear Guinevere told me you were off to beat sense into a band of ill-tempered, bad-smelling barbarians so I of course went to Scotland! But all I saw there were sheep and men and sheep dung and man dung. It wasn't exactly glamorous, so -" She lifted her face to glare wearily at him, and he hastily added, "I won't bore you with the details." The old man moved to stand beside her. "What's got my little king all depressed?"_

"_Paris is still holding out." Arturia replied dully. "We have cut off all their supplies and they cannot hope to drive us off, yet Flollo refuses to surrender."_

_Merlin snorted in a most undignified manner. "Simple-minded fool. There's no way out unless he has a magus, but the Romans never could train a magus capable of more than a brush fire." He spat in contempt. "Most likely he's determined to fight to the end, thinking you'll lose patience and end him with a sword instead of a famine. It's breathtaking in its boneheaded stupidity. Fortunately, the only person I know who would do something like that is Kay."_

"_Please stop insulting my brother, Merlin." Arturia reproved, but without heat. Merlin's eyes narrowed slightly._

"_My, you are down in the dumps today." Arturia had no idea what the expression meant, but didn't feel like asking. "The idiot Roman isn't the real problem, is he?"_

"_No," Arturia admitted. The old wizard probably knew the real reason; no matter what her personal feelings towards him were, the stories they told about Merlin in Britain were all true. No doubt he considered her a personal investment and devoted a portion of his intellect and power to keeping track of her. She closed her eyes._

"_The Parisians throw themselves off the town walls every day now." Her voice shook. "Most of them die when they hit the ground, and those that do not beg and scream for an end to the pain. My warriors disobey my orders and approach the town walls just to stop their suffering. What is even worse," to her great irritation she felt the surge of tears behind her eyes, "is that even when they come within bowshot and spear-throw there is no response. Derfel tells me that their soldiers are quartered within the town and given what food there is so that they do not starve, but that is scant comfort to the townspeople if their protectors cannot protect them."_

_She buried her face in her hands again when she finished, and for a long moment silence reigned in the pavilion._

"_Sometimes, I forget how young you are." For once, Merlin's voice wasn't jovial or impish, bereft of the carefree brashness that usually characterized the wizard. He sounded sad, and for once weighed down with the burdens of his venerable age._

"_I doubt that were I as old as you, this would affect me any less." Arturia summoned up the energy to retort acerbically._

"_You'd be surprised." Merlin stepped away from her chair, turning his back. "Enough violence can wear down even the most virtuous of men and women, until all they know is war." He gave a brief, mirthless chuckle. "It's already happened countless times, and it will keep happening for as long as humans exist."_

_The wizard suddenly turned and looked at her. His eyes, normally so bright and vivid, were dull. "Someone very dear to you will suffer that fate, but you won't be around to see it."_

_Arturia looked upward sharply. "What - ?"_

_Merlin waved a hand dismissively. "My fault. He isn't born yet, and won't be for quite a while. Forget about it." Steel-grey eyes bored into her. "This is the duty of a king, Arturia. This is your destiny. I warned you about it before you drew Caliburn from the stone. It is hard and unrewarding and will cause you great pain, but -"_

"_- it is my responsibility." Arturia interrupted him before he could continue along that train of thought. "Like my father, I am the rightful king and must accept the life of a monarch. This was never in any doubt, Merlin. I am sure you saw that."_

_The wizard sighed, and she thought she saw the gleam of a tear in one eye. "Yes. I did."_

"_I am not wavering." Briefly Arturia wondered if she was talking to him, or herself. "I accept that this must happen, but that does not mean I cannot feel for those I have caused grief."_

_Merlin sighed again. "That is your choice, but I doubt it will lead to any good. Feelings will destroy a person just as surely as a blade will. Regardless..." he paused, then continued, "I didn't come here to second-guess your leadership, otherwise I might as well have taken the sword for myself. I came," he paused again, and his gaze was solid, "to tell you I have faith in you, and that I will continue to stand by you for as long as I am able. The burdens of kingship are heavy, but they do not have to be borne alone."_

_Touched, Arturia smiled at him. "Thank you, Merlin."_

_He winked impishly, and suddenly Merlin the irresponsible, roguish knave was back. "Glad that's done with! I'm off to find cheese! It's the only real good thing about Gaul, you know. Besides the wine, oh, and the hookers!"_

_Arturia had no idea what a 'hooker' was, but judging by Merlin's usual habits she could guess._

"_Get out, Merlin."_

"_As you wish, Your Highness!" he chuckled cheekily before bending under the pavillion flap and disappearing._

_Arturia had just enough time to sink back into her chair and close her eyes before the flap opened again and the same messenger rushed back into the tent, panting._

"_My lord!" His face was red and flushed with excitement. "The Roman leader has sent word from Paris! He challenges you to single combat in three days!"_

_For a moment Arturia stared dumbly at the boy, unable to comprehend his words. Then, she nodded calmly, making sure to project the proper serenity into the movement._

_A king should never reveal their true emotions._

"_Fetch Hygwydd. I want my wargear prepared."_

_The dueling ground was flat_ _and hard, a recent bout of drought having hardened the earth into a compact and solid surface underfoot. Nevertheless, Arturia tested it with one armored boot. The dirt refused to budge. She nodded, satisfied._

_Hygwydd had outdone himself, feverishly working to make sure every plate was cleaned and Caliburn shone like the noon sun over-head. He had even insisted on polishing Rhongmyniad's spearhead, even though the terms of the challenge meant that it would not be used. He had checked over the lances obsessively to make sure the wood was strong and without flaws. As a result, her wargear had never been in better shape._

_The challenge was to begin on horseback with lances, almost like a joust save one difference. According to Flollo's messenger, the battle was to continue until death. If Arturia carried the day, then Paris would open its doors and submit to the might of Camelot. If instead Flollo won, the siege would be lifted and the Britons would return to their own territory._

_Arturia spared the ground one more glance, then looked across the field. An crimson tent rippled in the wind, the flag beside it proudly bearing the letters and laurel of the Roman empire. Even from this distance she could see the glint of sunlight on metal as Roman legionaries patrolled around the tent. She suppressed a smile at their diligence; the overwhelming numbers and superior equipment of the Britons meant that any attack would smash the Romans utterly, and whether or not patrols sighted them would make little difference._

_It was, after all, why Flollo had challenged her to combat instead of trying a breakout._

_Her own tent stood some distance behind her, surrounded by thousands of British tents. Unlike the Roman tents, which all bore the Roman symbol uniformly, her knights had chosen individual symbols and by looking at each tent she could see who called it home. There was Kay's silver wolf, the gold lion-like creature of Safir, Derfel's crimson griffon, and King Anguish's unicorn, among others. The symbol emblazoned upon her tent, of course, was that of a crimson dragon rampant._

_She pushed aside the flap as she went in, letting it drop behind her. Hygwydd stood ready in the corner, her wargear resting on a stand and a table situated on either side of him._

_In battle she normally wore plate armor, unadorned save for the fiery red dragon that decorated her breastplate. That particular suit was now in a sorry state, battered and bent from strong sword blows. A particularly vicious stroke from a Gaulish warrior had actually split the chestpiece so that the dragon had been chopped in two. There was no time or opportunity to repair it, but in anticipation of just such damage Hygwydd had brought along a spare suit of armor._

_He helped her don it now, hands moving swiftly and surely to fasten buckles and pull new breastplate clicked slightly as it was placed over the chainmail hauberk she wore, and clicked again when Hygwydd fastened the breast and back plates of the armor together._

_She pulled on the sabatons over her feet herself, and her squire then fastened the greaves over her calves. He placed the poleyns over her knees and tied them tightly so they sat easily against her legs._

"_Comfortable, mi'lord?" he enquired. She nodded lightly._

"Carry on, Hygwydd."

_The thigh guards went on after the poleyns, Hygwydd tying them to the knee guards and then fastening the straps around her calves. He tugged experimentally on each one, then did the same to the tasset that protected her torso and upper legs._

"_Now the arms, sire?" All squires knew their jobs and Hygwydd was the best, but no one ever did anything to the Red Dragon of Britain without her permission._

"_Yes."_

_The fitting of the arm plates went much more quickly than those on the legs. Hygwydd tied on the vambraces to her upper arms while she pulled on leather gloves and then her steel gauntlets, then fastened the couter to her elbows to connect the metal pieces. The pauldrons went over her shoulders, until all that was left exposed was her face._

_It had all gone routinely, save for one difference. Unlike the steel grey of her regular armor, this suit was painted a deep crimson, as red as freshly-spilled blood. The pauldrons, gauntlets, and sabatons were picked out in brightest gold, as were the elbow and knee joints._

_Crimson and gold had been her father's colors. She personally thought that they looked tremendously gaudy and much preferred her muted colors of royal blue and light silver. It had been the only other suit forged for her unique stature, but she had not expected to need it._

_She was not her father, had not even known him before he died. Though his symbol was that of the family line, his colors were not. They would be replaced by her own, just as his fame would be eclipsed by her deeds._

_And yet...she had never done him proper homage, from a loyal child to a father. She had never fought with him and earned his approval on the battlefield. She did not know, truly, if he would have approved of her today. It was unlikely; Merlin told her he had wanted a son._

_But Uther had had a noted fondness for duels, often engaging in single combat to prove his worth and prowess over his foes. In this much, at least, she might have his approval. Wearing his colors during such an action seemed like a way to honor him, albeit reluctantly and with no other alternative._

_Hygywydd went over the ties again quickly, making sure that the armor remained tightly fitted against his king's body. Finding no loose laces, he hurried away to the nearby table and came back with a thick gold cloak that he fastened to Arturia's shoulders. The easy task was made easier due to Hygwydd being half a head taller than his lord._

_Arturia shifted experimentally, grimacing as the cloak weighed down on her shoulders. Fighting in the blasted thing would prove a real nuisance, but her advisors had urged her to at least enter the battle wearing it. The men of the Legions were soldiers first and foremost, but ostentatious in their finery, and they expected as much from their foes. Normally she could care less about ornamentation in battle, but this was no such thing. The duel was all about appearances and expectations, and unless she wanted to either resume the siege or murder every single soul in Paris, she needed to take heed of that._

"_Something wrong, mi'lord?" Hygwydd asked in concern, standing with her helmet in his hands. Arturia looked up, then shook her head. _

"_Nothing at all, Hygwydd." She gripped the helmet and pulled it down over her head, dropping the visor as she did so. The metal sat heavily on her head and her peripheral vision was basically nullified, but she was accustomed to that. In a melee a helmet was an option, in a joust it was a necessity. The mass of her hair, even braided as it was, sat uneasily inside the confines of the helmet. Kay had advised her to get it cut, but she had refused. It was her one real vanity, and she did not much feel like getting rid of it for an affair that would last a few hours at the most._

_Hygwydd brought forth Caliburn, laid reverently across his palms. The golden blade glinted gently even in the dimly-lit space of the tent. Her sword-belt was already buckled around her hips, so Hygwydd slid the sheathed blade through the leather loops of the belt until the sword's guard tapped against her waist._

_Now, she was ready._

_The area around the dueling ground was filled to bursting._

_From her vantage point atop the restless, snorting white mare, Arturia surveyed the crowd. Across from her was arrayed the full finery and regalia of a Roman Legion, all crimson cloth and dull grey steel. Encased in their armor, the legionaries stood like statues, staring blindly ahead and only moving their eyelids to blink. Their heavy rectangular shields were grasped in left hands, but they bore no spears, perhaps a sign of Flollo's determination to stop a massacre._

_Around her, on her own side, were gathered the British knights and men-at-arms. Unlike their opposing counterparts, each of her warriors was garbed in his own fashion and equipped with weapons of his own choosing. Leather breastplates and leg guards were common, though most of the knights and no few men-at-arms wore the new plate armor Merlin had designed. She glimpsed Safir, clad in armor of burnished gold, while Bedivere stood solemnly in simple grey plate. Kay disdained even that and wore only leather. Unconscious of etiquette as always, he fiddled with the hilt of his sword, though he was not so crass as to actually draw it. Arturia's eyebrows drew together, but before she could say anything, Cunedda, dignified in emerald and obsidian, elbowed the seneschal. Kay scowled blackly, but stopped fidgeting._

_The brassy cry of trumpets cut through the hot, still air, and Arturia stiffened. The line of crimson-cloaked legionaries parted, and out cantered a magnificent stallion the color of night. It snorted and pawed the ground with one hoof, surveying the ground with baleful amber eyes. It was noticeably bare of the cloth finery some nobles liked to decorate their horses with, and a steel plate on its chest was the only armor it bore._

_Its rider, however, was clad from head to toe in full plate armor. A crimson cloak, identical to those of the legionaries, hung from his shoulders, while the Roman aquila decorated his breastplate. Unlike Arturia's own garish suit, the Roman's was unpainted, the golden eagle its only splash of color. He wore no helmet, and his face was broad and flat. His head was shaved entirely bald so that the stark angles added to a piercing stare from dark eyes. A scar ran diagonal across his left cheek, another above his eyebrows. He was not a handsome man to begin with and the scars made him ugly, yet there was no cruelty in his face and only determination in his eyes._

_This, then, was the Tribune Flollo, and the cheers that boomed forth from his men as they hammered fists against shields confirmed it. Flollo ignored them, hard eyes sweeping the field until they found Arturia and fixed on her. She met his gaze calmly, seeing the barely-controlled rage lurking in his gaze._

_A priest from one of the nearby communities had been persuaded to oversee the duel. He stood between the two camps, his simple black gown contrasting drastically with the flamboyant colors of both sides. His hands shook as he clutched his long wooden staff, and one went to his neck to grip the small silver cross that hung there. He looked nervous, but began speaking, declaiming the ritual combat that was about to take place. Arturia tuned out the words, instead choosing to look into the Roman general's hate-filled eyes._

_Privately, the king of the Britons admitted to herself that he had good reason. She had gone into Gaul intending to do battle with the Roman Emperor Lucius Tiberius, and had instead found a rebel Tribune who fought against him. There lay no quarrel between them, yet she was still bound to wrest territory from the Empire, even if those lands lay only nominally in its grasp. For that, she had besieged a city and reduced its inhabitants to human ruins and wreckage._

_Her gaze swept the assembled lines of Roman soldiers. Tight and disciplined they might be, but the lines of red and silver looked paltry compared to the mass of Britons that waited before them. The fact that the British cavalry alone outnumbered the legions at least two to one meant that the soldiers of Italy would probably be smashed in a wild, headlong charge. What soldiers that were not dispatched by the mounted knights would be slaughtered by the heavily-armed foot soldiers who followed in their wake. The Romans would of course fight to the death, but their mail hauberks and rectangular shields were no match for battle-axes and two-handed greatswords wielded by the best warriors Camelot could offer. Flollo hoped to spare his people by defeating the British king in combat, but if Arturia lost her warriors would fall on the Romans like wolves pulling down a stag. There would be no mercy._

_Therefore, if she hoped to spare the doomed Italians now so vigorously cheering for her death, she had to win. It was not a troublesome thought; she had not intended on losing in any case._

_The priest had finished speaking, and he scuttled back to the relative safety of the British lines, nearly tripping over Kay's outstretched foot as he ran past. The seneschal chortled to himself until Cunedda's elbow lodged in his gut once more._

_Despite herself, Arturia grinned. Flollo's eyes flashed darkly, and his lance lowered, poised for tilting. The black stallion beneath him snorted and pawed the ground, as if sensing its master's aggression. Feeling her own horse shift underneath her, Arturia couched her own lance. The long weapon swayed in her hand but she handled it with the ease of long practice. At the same time she raised her own shield, presenting the rampant dragon to her opponent. For a few long minutes they regarded each other over the rims of their shields._

_From behind Kay's shoulder, the priest shouted the command to begin. It was perhaps not the most dignified way to begin a duel, but given the prowess of the two warriors involved it was probably the wisest._

_Before the nasal yell died out, Arturia was moving, spurs pressed tightly to the sides of her mount. Her lance was poised and her shield was up. Of Flollo's, she saw only a blur._

_The shock of impact nearly jolted Arturia out of her saddle, even though she had braced for it. Instinct set in, and she threw all her weight forward, focusing her strength behind the gleaming point of her lance._

_Steel met steel with a blood-curdling screech. The lance moved suddenly, throwing Arturia off balance. She caught a brief glimpse of falling gold, and then her mare was past. There was a thundering cheer from the British side, and as she slowed her horse's gallop to a canter she saw why._

_Flollo lay in the center of the dueling ground, struggling to get up. His horse was in a similar state, piled in a heap off to the side and emitting a high-pitched whinny. Its front leg leaked blood onto the parched soil; it was not going to be returning to the duel any time soon._

"_Flollo!" Arturia shouted, catching the Roman tribune's attention as he finally pulled himself to his feet. "Yield! I would not spill any more blood!"_

_Flollo's eyes flashed with anger at this. He took the lance, which he had managed to keep a grip on despite his tumble, in both hands and angled it towards the British king like a spear._

"_Romans do not yield, barbarian whelp." His voice was a deep growl, certainty and conviction lending strength to the bass rumble._

"_Not even to protect their citizens?" Arturia yelled back, acutely aware at how thin and light her voice seemed beside his. "You would neglect your duty to your people? Continue to see them starve and wither?"_

"_Rome does not serve its citizens!" Flollo thundered, hefting the lance. "Its citizens serve Rome!" And with a howl of rage he cast the lance like a javelin._

_Blood sprayed the air in front of her and for one panicked second Arturia thought she had been hit, but instead the mare beneath her neighed in agony. It reared up in pain, kicking the air, and dumped the British king gracelessly off its back. A deafening roar burst from the crowd; the Romans clashing fists against shields in encouragement, while the British bellowed in anger._

_Arturia rolled once she felt her body hit the dirt. The impact jarred her body even through the plate, but she was able to get to her feet. Her left arm felt lighter than it should have been; she glanced at it and realized the shield had been lost in the fall. There was no time to retrieve it, either._

_Flollo stooped to recover his own shield, pushing the laurel-decorated wood onto his arm. After a slight roll of his shoulder, he dropped his right hand to his hip and drew the sword that hung there, flicking away the sheath with his shield hand._

_The helmet was hampering her vision; she tugged it off and cast it aside. Flollo frowned and stopped for a moment, looking at her._

"_You...you are nothing but a child." The shock was clearly written across his face, which then smoothed into neutrality. "So in addition to being uncultured barbarians, the British allow themselves to be led by a mewling stripling barely out of his cradle?" He snorted._

_Arturia felt her cheeks flush with anger. "I am more than capable of leading my country, no matter what my age would indicate." She flicked a narrow-eyed glance at her opponent. "But you did not come here for words, Roman."_

_Caliburn came easily out of its scabbard, the great two-handed blade glinting in the afternoon light. The British king assumed a guard position, tilting the point at her opponent's throat._

_Flollo let out an ugly laugh, eyes lingering significantly on her two-handed grip. "The British king discards his shield? The Gauls thought the same way, charging naked at our legions while brandishing clumsy pieces of brittle iron." A smirk curved his mouth. "Or was that when Julius Caesar landed at Britain? I can never tell you unwashed barbarians apart."_

_Arturia ignored the twitch in her eye, choosing instead to respond calmly. "And I thought Romans were men of action and deeds instead of men who bluster and posture." She allowed a smirk of her own to turn the corners of her lips upwards. "A Roman tribune meets a beardless boy in a joust - and is thrown off his horse. Then, when he unseats his adversary, he stands motionless, choosing to use his mouth instead of his sword."_

_The smirk vanished from Flollo's mouth, and he moved, faster and more gracefully than his size would suggest. He thrust his shield out as he charged, aiming to use his momentum to bowl over the considerably smaller and thinner knight._

_Arturia took one step to the left, and as the tribune rushed past her like an angry bull, Caliburn flashed down to slash down into his back. The angle meant Flollo's armor deflected the blow, and the impact sent unpleasant shocks up the young king's arms, but the tribune stumbled forward. Unable to stop his forward motion, he fell to the ground, head thumping painfully against the packed dirt._

_Among the cacophonous cheer raised by the British knights, Arturia waited calmly, Caliburn held easily in both hands. She could of course, have pressed her attack and killed Flollo while he was attempting to rise. Plate armor was superbly balanced, but that did not mean it was no burden. Designed for a wearer who stood upright, it was tremendously difficult to move in other positions._

_Like when the user was prone._

_Flollo pushed himself to his feet, rising to his full height once more. He dwarfed her, his massive form making hers look as slender as a matchstick. This time, however, he nodded slightly to her as he lifted his weapons._

_As soon as his shield was up, Arturia attacked. Instead of a headlong charge, though, she opted for another tactic: covering the short distance between them with a single bound. She landed right beside him, and when the tribune twisted to bring his sword into line, she swept Caliburn down at his knees. Flollo crouched and deflected the blow with his shield while aiming a vertical slash down. Arturia twisted her wrists and parried, slanting the strike aside so that Flollo was forced to step back or risk dropping the sword._

_Flollo struck out with his shield again, clipping her face with its edge. She went with the blow, dropping back a few steps. Flollo followed relentlessly, chopping viciously with his sword. It was a typical Roman gladius, meant for the close, cramped fighting of the shield wall. It was about a foot shorter than Caliburn, but the shield negated that particular disadvantage._

_Arturia blocked the first three blows and caught the forth with the edge of her sword. A twist of her wrist slid the blade aside, and as Flollo punched at her with his shield, she spun around him and delivered a vicious kick to the back of his knee joint. The tribune grunted in pain as a steel boot hammered his joint. He fell forward, already twisting around to try a retaliatory stroke._

_Caliburn found the shoulder joint of his armor. Blood sprayed, and Flollo let out a grunt of pain. He caught himself with one hand, and before Arturia could step away, struck out with his own blade._

_Arturia staggered backwards, the force pushing her but otherwise doing little damage. Flollo used the time to regain his feet for the fourth time in the duel. This time, instead of going after her he lifted his shield._

_A faint smile graced Arturia's lips, and she attacked again._

_Caliburn swept down in an overhand stroke that would have cloven Flollo in two, but for his shield. The blow slid off, though he grimaced in effort, and he tried a stab at her stomach. Arturia knocked the blow away with her pommel and rained strikes down upon the Roman tribune, slashing at his head and shoulders. He weathered the attack stoically, using his shield to bear the brunt of the assault._

_Tough old wood deflected another blow, and Flollo stabbed out, but he grunted in pain and was a second late in withdrawing his arm. Arturia whipped Caliburn into another slash, aiming to split the limb. Instead, Flollo spun, somehow managing a graceful pirouette, and slammed the pommel of his gladius into her stomach._

_Metal screeched, and pain blossomed in Arturia's abdomen. She gasped and wavered for a moment. The Roman smashed a booted foot into her face and she toppled backwards. A blind strike with Caliburn caught only air, and then she felt herself being picked up by her hair and flung._

_Groans of dismay erupted from the British as the Romans resumed their clash of steel on steel. Arturia only dimly registered this as she rolled across the dirt. She stabbed Caliburn into the ground as soon as her momentum had bled off and hauled herself to her feet, doing her best to ignore the growing pain in her belly._

_Across from her Flollo was already moving forward, gladius poised. In response, Arturia yanked Caliburn out from the dirt and settled it into a guard._

_They crossed blades again, and this time Flollo's strength nearly knocked Caliburn from her hands. In fact, the Roman tribune seemed stronger than ever before as he rained blows down upon her, following every few strikes with a bash from his shield to prevent her from taking the upper hand._

_She could feel the warm wetness of blood trickling down her stomach. Flollo's strength was tremendous; the blunt force of the blow had buckled the armor, driving sharp edges into her stomach. The pain gnawed at her, made it hard to think. She barely deflected a decapitating strike, but it drove her to her knees. It took her awhile to realize that Flollo was speaking, sword raised for a last blow._

"_You put up a good fight, Briton," he was saying, voice flavored with something oddly like regret. "I have rarely felt the sting of a blade's kiss, even though I have fought in many battles with my men. But then again, the barbarian tribes have never been lacking in strength of arms. Your deficits are your lack of honor and your inability to keep your word."_

"_In my land, they say the same about you." Arturia gasped. "My elders tell tales of Carthage and Gaul, of Vercingetorix hauled away in chains and the fields of Carthage salted to ruin. Your legions enlisted the aid of the Thracians on the understanding that they would be defending their own villages, and yet your glory-hungry generals disobeyed their own orders and headed away to fight the Greeks." It hurt to breathe, much less talk. "You broke your bargain with the Thracians and left them to die."_

_She risked a glance up; the gladius hovered overhead like the sword of Damocles. Flollo's face twisted oddly, wrenching with something that might be pain. "There are only Romans and enemies of Rome. The latter do not deserve to be treated with honor. It is my duty to destroy my land's enemies, no matter what the cost may be."_

"_What of your duty to your people?" Arturia nearly screamed with frustration. The pain was getting too great; she took one hand from Caliburn to press against her torn armor. "Is that not the point of serving Rome, to protect your people? You let them starve instead of allowing them to keep their lives. Yet you obviously care, or you would not have challenged me to single combat at this late date."_

_Flollo did not speak for a long moment, his expression troubled. In his hand, the blade remained motionless._

"_Rome does not serve its citizens," he murmured, so quietly she could barely catch it. "Its citizens serve Rome."_

_The sword flashed down._

_And in that moment, Arturia gathered all of her remaining strength and struck. She howled in pain, in rage, in frustration, and as she did she rose to her feet and slashed Caliburn down with all of her might so quickly that Flollo had no time to block. The tribune's face disappeared in a sudden distortion of flesh and bone. His head crumpled inwards under the force of the blow and blood hit Arturia's face in a hot spray. His intended swing thumped harmlessly into the dirt, while the body tottered and fell to its knees._

_Arturia pulled on her sword, but it only slid out a few inches with a disgusting squelch before refusing to budge. It took such an effort that when Caliburn finally came free of the corpse's cranium, it kept going in a backswing that scattered more droplets of blood and brain matter around the dueling ground._

_Silence reigned over the king and the cadaver for a few breathless moments, then the British knights burst out in wild cheers. Swords slid free from their scabbards to be waved wildly around. Kay was yelling like a madman, gesturing so wildly with his weapon that he almost decapitated Cunedda, who gave him a displeased look and wrested away the sword. Not to be outdone, Balin had unsheathed both his swords and was hollering so loudly his brother Balan had moved away from him. A great grin had broken Safir's usually impassive mien, while Bedivere was clapping joyously._

_Derfel stood in the front row of warriors, but unlike his comrades he made no show of joy. He caught her gaze and smiled sadly, before clasping his hands together and bowing his head in prayer._

_Across the field the Romans let out a great groan of despair. Many men dropped their shields and fell to their knees, while others wept openly. Gradually, centurions in crested helmets began to emerge from the lines, shouting orders and shoving men into line with judicious uses of their batons. The silver armor of the legionnaires coalesced gradually into a single shimmering line, which then marched slowly towards Arturia, who leaned wearily on Caliburn and watched them come._

_In the front of the long line was a Roman whose armor looked better-made than that of his soldiers. His helmet did nothing to conceal the sadness in his eyes when he looked at his leader's body, nor the bitterness when he lifted his head to gaze at Arturia. Sensing this, Kay and Bedivere closed protectively around her while Cunedda's men formed up behind them. Safir and Derfel stepped in front of her, the Saracen's hand resting belligerently on his sword while Derfel coolly returned the man's look._

_Arturia sighed and gently tapped Safir on the shoulder. The Saracen knight moved aside and she stepped forward to face the Roman officer._

"_What is your name, Roman?"_

_The officer's face twisted, but he met her gaze steadily. "Sub-tribune Flavius Hortensius Metellus Gallius."_

_From behind her, Kay snorted. "It's a little pretentious to be giving yourself that kind of agnomen, wouldn't you think?"_

_The officer's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"_

_Kay's expansive gesture encompassed the surrounding lands. "You Romans give yourselves third or fourth names depending on your deeds, do you not? Well, you clearly did not have Gaul under control even before we arrived, nor were you the most senior officer present in this sorry-looking rabble here." The legionnaires shifted and growled at this, but Kay continued blithely. "It seems rather pretentious, but what else could we expect from Italians-"_

"Kay," _Arturia did not quite snap. The seneschal offered the Roman a chilly little smile and subsided._

"_Sub-tribune Gallius, then," Arturia continued, ignoring Kay's snort. "The duel is concluded. Do you wish to dispute the outcome?"_

_For a moment Gallius looked like he wanted to, and damn the consequences, but his eyes strayed to the still-bloodied sword in the young king's hand. Then all tension left his face in a sudden breath, and he bowed his head._

"_No."_

_He knelt before her and offered up his gladius, the blade resting across both open palms._

"_As acting commander of the V, XII, and XIII Legions, I, Flavius Hortensius Metellus Gallius offer my surrender."_

_Arturia arched a brow. "Three legions? What happened to the other commanders?"_

"_Legatus Scipio Kalarus Placidus was in overall command of the legions before the...change in leadership. He was also the governor of this province, and the legions were constantly marching to put down rebellions he incited by sanctioning mob attacks on the locals. He had an unfortunate accident and succumbed to his wounds," the sub-tribune responded blandly._

"_Meaning he was an idiot and got stabbed a few times." Kay translated, nodding sagely. Surprisingly enough, Gallius' mouth quirked upwards in what might have been a smirk._

"_Tribune Flollo, as the most senior officer in all the legions, took command after the legatus' death. Tribune Septimus Atticus Herculius of the Fifth refused to support the legions' new objectives and was slain. Tribune Publius Parcius Balabus of the Thirteenth died during the siege." Gallius bowed his head again, staring at the ground. "I am the ranking officer now."_

"_Tell me, Tribune Gallius, why did your commander rebel against his emperor?" Arturia enquired. Flollo had praised Rome's glories to the last, despite taking arms against it. Curiosity compelled her to ask why._

_Gallius lifted his chin, pride gleaming in his eyes. "The Emperor believes he is Rome, but instead of viewing that position as a grave and solemn responsibility entrusted to him by our people, he sees it as a mandate for absolute power. The Tribune Flollo was outspoken in his condemnation of the Emperor's conduct and lost his family because of his beliefs. They were slain while he was here in Gaul, and after Placidus died he took command and set out to make the cur pay for his crimes." Sorrow gleamed in the Roman's eyes. "He announced his course of action to us, and added that any of us could leave without harm. None did."_

_Arturia nodded. She handed Caliburn to Kay, who took it reverently, and accepted the proffered weapon. She tied it carefully to her still-worn sword belt, and then gestured for the sub-tribune to rise._

"_Go. Inform your people that the siege is over. I expect your legions to begin disarming themselves immediately, for they are now our prisoners. Your people may remain in their homes; Paris is now part of Britain, and as such they are now my subjects." She turned slightly. "Derfel. Begin organizing shipments of food from Camelot so that we can feed the townspeople and our prisoners. Until then, divide our provisions up appropriately."_

_The Saxon nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."_

_Gallius watched her, a baffled look on his face. Arturia turned back to look at him._

"_There is one more thing, sub-tribune. Your legions represent a substantial number of mouths to feed." At this, panic flared in his eyes, at which Arturia raised a hand. "Peace, Roman. I do not intend on killing your men, but nor can I afford to keep you as prisoners who do nothing but waste away in cells. I would normally not ransom you back to your Emperor, as you would no doubt raise arms against me again, but I doubt he is inclined to accept you in any case. Therefore, that leaves you two options._

_You and your men may leave, after swearing oaths never to raise arms against it. I will provide you safe passage out of Gaul, and you may make your way back to Italy if you so desire. Unfortunately I cannot provide you with your weapons or armor, so the journey will be long and dangerous."_

_She paused, watching the Roman's mouth work in frustration for a moment._

"_Or you may remain here." She let out a small smile as he stared slack-jawed at her. "You can swear loyalty to Camelot and become my subjects. I bear you no ill will, and if any of your men want land for farming I will grant it, in Gaul or in Britain. Those are your choices."_

_Gallius was silent for a long moment, and then nodded once. "Will I have time to discuss this with my men?" he asked._

"_Yes. I will come for your answer in three days."_

_As the tribune stepped away and began ordering his men to surrender their weapons, Bedivere stepped closer. "I wonder about your offer, Your Majesty." he said quietly. "If they stay, the men will take a dim view of their food being reduced to feed enemies."_

"_If they stay, they will then be providing food for themselves and more importantly, the kingdom." Arturia responded, steel etching her voice. "The men are welcome to express their grievances, so long as they accept the consequences of any acts of disobedience."_

_Bedivere glanced at the messy corpse, to which flies were already gathering. "Of course, Your Majesty." He departed quickly._

_Kay coughed meaningfully, catching her attention. He gestured at Caliburn's bloodstained blade. "I'll just get this cleaned up, shall I?"_

"_Yes. Thank you, Kay."_

_He offered her a little smile and followed Bedivere. Safir excused himself immediately, muttering something in the Saracen language she did not understand, and Cunedda offered her a solemn bow before also disappearing. Soon she was left alone in the bustling chaos of the dueling ground._

_Several Romans collected Flollo's corpse and carried it off, undoubtedly to bury it with full honors. The British men-at-arms watched them warily, but Derfel appeared briefly, speaking softly, and they relaxed._

_Victory was hers. She had captured a major city and disposed of a sizable force of enemy troops, all without losing a single warrior. She could hear the beginnings of song from around the camp as her men expressed their jubilation by engaging in the traditional British pastime. She had every right to be happy._

_Yet she was not. Victory had been gained, but at a terrible cost to the people of Paris. Affiliated with the Roman Empire they might have been, but they were almost certainly concerned with living out their lives instead of invading Britain._

_Even the Legions themselves were not enemies, truly. They had rebelled against the Emperor in Rome, and only fought her because she had come for Roman territory and found only insurgents._

_This did not feel like a victory._

"_With that attitude, they never will."_

_Merlin's voice washed over her in its smooth tenor, but Arturia lacked the energy to be surprised._

"_I killed many who did not deserve to die." She looked up into the weathered, craggy face of the man to whom she owed her kingdom and saw an unusual solemnity in his eyes. The old Druid returned her gaze steadily._

"_That usually happens when you rule a kingdom, though most of those aren't nearly so dramatic." Merlin shrugged. "It's one of the reasons anyone with half a brain doesn't want to rule. Too much responsibility. And before you ask," he leaned forward, "it's difficult enough to ensure your own followers' safety. Today was as great a victory as you could ever hope for."_

_Arturia let her gaze fall. "Would that it was not so."_

_Merlin nodded. "Indeed."_

_They spent a long moment in silence. Then,_

"_I will make a world where that is possible."_

_Merlin shook his head. "That in itself is impossible. It's good to have goals; keeps one motivated. But what you seek to do is to defy human nature and the way of the world. When conflict arises, those who do not deserve it suffer the most. There is no way to change that."_

"_Has anyone ever tried?" The young king asked, not looking up. "Rulers who seek to better the lives of their subjects are few and far between."_

"_This is not just 'bettering the lives of subjects''." Irritation swept across the ancient wizard's face. "You want to upend the natural order of things. You do realize how many people ended up dead because they wanted to challenge fate, right?"_

"_None of them had as wise an advisor as I do, though, did they?" Arturia allowed a smirk to curve her lips._

_For a moment Merlin's eyes flared hot and she braced herself for an explosive outburst, but then the old man simply sighed and leaned on his staff._

"_You stubborn child. You're going to be the death of me. Go then, establish your utopia. I'll be around to make sure reality doesn't hit you too hard in the gonads."_

"_I am so glad I have your blessing." Arturia replied dryly. Merlin waved his arm._

"_Yes, yes, you don't need to be so droll about it. Well, that's all the philosophy I am willing to deal with right now. I think I'll pay a trip to Ireland; the women there are quite...mm, striking, and there's some things I need to do to put a lovely young royal on her proper path." He took his weight off the staff. "I'll leave you to your violence and righteous smiting; give that arrogant old ass of a Roman a good hiding from me. I never liked him."_

_Arturia stifled a smile. "Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the ruler, Merlin."_

_Merlin smirked. "Well then, stop wondering. I don't care nearly enough to govern a bunch of lackwits and deal with Kay on such a daily basis."_

_With that, the old rogue left, his stride that of a much younger man, and Arturia was left to ponder the path she had just set herself on. It would be long and hard, she knew, and there was no guarantee of success. It was probably impossible._

_But what was the worth of a king who did not strive to make their kingdom a better place than it was when they received it?_

_For the sake of her people, for the sake of her country, she would try._


End file.
